


Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Satyr Fics [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anthropomorphic, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Promiscuity, Rutting, Same Sex Marriage, giant penises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 49,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock's dormmates decide to punish him for his lip by tying him up in a nearby Satyr Reservation covered in Rut hormones, Sherlock fears he will be rapes. When the young Buck who stumbles across him doesn't speak a word of English, he's sure he will be, but the experience triggers something new in Sherlock's transport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Sherlock struggled in his bonds, furious at himself for being caught by the _Neanderthals_ who he shared a dorm with. His dorm mate and three others had apparently thought it humorous to tie him up in the nearby Satyr reserve. It wasn’t _his_ fault that they were abysmally stupid, but they apparently thought him the scapegoat and when he’d stated so they’d decided to make him somebody’s Nanny. So, here he was chained to a tree and waiting for them to leave him for the night.

He’d be fine, of course. While Satyr were extremely sexual creatures they didn’t just go around raping people, in fact they were more likely to try to get him down and back to civilization than have their way with him. It was only during Rut or Heat that a Satyr was unable to control its desire, and even then they were known to _offer_ themselves rather than take what they wanted. Apparently it had something to do with Satyr pheromones. A Satyr in Rut would go find a female, who would respond to his scent by going on Heat, and then they’d have hours of sex – or vice versa if the female had gone on Heat first. Of course, if the opposite gender weren’t available they would sate themselves with whoever would have them. Supposedly the males were even capable of becoming pregnant, an evolutionary advancement likely occurring due to the fact they had neared extinction.

“You lot really are thick, aren’t you?” Sherlock snarled at the laughing young men, “They aren’t going to _rape_ me. This isn’t some television _drama_. You’re just wasting my time! The worse that will happen is I’ll get a cramp in my arms from being chained up!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” his dorm mate chuckled, “but knowing how fond you are of that stick up your arse, maybe you’ll enjoy it.”

The young men laughed again and the first produced rubber gloves, a vial, four masks, and an oddly shaped object from his bag. He then donned the gloves and a mask while ordering the others to put on their masks and remove Sherlock’s clothes. They stripped him despite his attempts to brain them with his feet. His shirt remained unbuttoned but hanging off his shoulders as his arms were still chained to the tree behind him.

“Grab his legs and hold them up and open. Time to see if we can’t help you with some of your _anal_ compulsions!” Sherlock’s dorm mate quipped.

The odd shaped object was now coated in a rather pungent smelling substance from the container, and two of them held his legs up high enough that his bottom cleared the forest floor. When the man brought the object towards his arse Sherlock realized he intended to _impale_ him with it!

Sherlock howled and bucked and shouted for help, but it was to no avail, and he finally stilled lest he harm himself further by moving while that thing pressed into him. It wasn’t as painful as he’d expected. The slick substance eased the way, his body had relaxed automatically out of fear, and the object was tapered so that it slipped in and stretched the muscles bit by bit. As the larger part entered him he hissed at the burn, but didn’t fight it still. He turned his head aside in shame as arousal flooded his body and his cock swelled painfully fast. What the hell? They hadn’t even touched his prostate, there was no reason for this desire unless…

_Oh, no!!_

“Look how much he loves it!” The young man to his right laughed, “You were right! He just needs a good buggering.”

“Yeah, well he’s gonna get it. You smell like a Billy on Rut, Sherlock. If you’re lucky a pretty Doe will come along and ride you till you pass out. If not, then a nice big strong Billy is going to come up and make you his Nanny!”

Sherlock frowned at the racist terms but kept his mouth shut. There was little he could do now. The bastard leading their group stripped off his gloves and dropped them on the ground – damn, no chance of them being waylaid on their way out of the forest.

It was only a few moments after the loud blokes left when the forest started coming back to life around him. Sherlock tensed at every broken branch and whisper of leaves. Soon a Doe emerged from the woods, her bottom half clothed only in fur and her full breasts swinging as she walked, and Sherlock let out a light laugh of relief. She approached him shyly, but as she drew near he realized she wasn’t here to mate – her belly was already slightly rounded with child. She tested the chains, walked around the tree once, and then smiled at him gently as if to tell him it was going to be all right.

“Get help from the school! It’s just that way,” Sherlock indicated towards the way the young men had left.

The Doe gave him a confused look, but then smiled again and headed off in the direction she’d indicated. Sherlock wondered if she spoke English. Most Satyrs did, but those who lived on reservations like this one were often uneducated outside of their own language and culture. Sherlock had only just started taking Greek in school, and though he was a known polyglot he had only had one class. He wasn’t able to hold enough of a conversation to get him some much needed help.

The Doe returned, but she was leading a _Buck_ with her, and Sherlock’s entire body froze in terror. He wasn’t particularly interested in sex, which was exactly why these fools had decided this was a decent punishment for him, and he was most certainly not interested in being _violated_ by a well-endowed Buck! His body was responding, of course, but that was hardly his own accord. The oil they’d filled his body with while raping him with that toy had Rut pheromones in it. He couldn’t _help_ but respond.

The Buck who approached him now was short, blonde, and beautifully muscular. He was almost completely unmarked above his torso, and could have passed for human if not for the five inch, lightly curving, upright horns on his head. The blonde hair on his legs was thick and wavy, giving him an even stockier appearance, as though he were built of solid iron strength. Sherlock had to admit he was a fine specimen – if one was looking to bed a Satyr, which he was decidedly _not_.

“Do you speak English?” The Buck cocked his head to the side and appeared to be listening, “Thank gods. Listen, I’m not what I smell like. I’m not in Rut and I’m… well, I’m obviously not a Satyr. I need to get back to the school. Do you understand me?”

The Satyr smiled at him softly and ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock groaned, his sensitive body responding despite his horror of the situation. The Buck lowered himself own on all four and sniffed at Sherlock’s privates, smiling approvingly at what he smelled. He took hold of Sherlock’s hips and raised him up a bit, relieving the ache in his shoulder’s, which gave Sherlock another reason to groan.

_I_ sound _like I want it! How can I convince him to stop?_

The Buck was kneeling on the ground in front of Sherlock and once he had him lifted he inched forward so that Sherlock sat in his lap, greatly reducing the strain on his body. Then he leaned forward and examined the cuffs around Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock experienced one moment of giddy relief that the Faun was going to release him, but then gasped and arched his back as the creature’s large erection – hereto ignored by Sherlock’s frightened psyche – brushed against his own. Pleasure shot through him unlike anything he’d ever known, though he wasn’t sure if it was because this was someone else’s touch or if the pheromones were to blame.

The Satyr groaned too, but stubbornly examined the chains despite his panting desire. He tried using his horns to break the links but ended up hissing in pain. Their erections continued to rub together and Sherlock lost all will to fight it and began thrusting against him in earnest. The Buck moaned and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, his breath fast and uneven.

Sherlock knew the moment the Faun’s own Rut kicked in, because his blonde head flew up, the scent changed dramatically, and he began frotting against him desperately. The new scent, real pheromones as opposed to the synthetic stuff smeared on him by his dorm mate, made Sherlock’s entire body thrum with desire. He writhed and moaned eagerly and soon found himself being fingered by the horny Satyr.

“Nooooo,” Sherlock moaned, still unwilling to be fucked by something so utterly huge.

The Satyr must have truly not spoken a word of English, because he moaned in apparent agreement and slipped a third finger inside Sherlock’s loosened entrance. Sherlock shook his head from side to side and tried to pull away, despite the aching throb in his cock that insisted this was absolutely a _brilliant_ idea. The satyr gave him a confused look, then smiled and slipped out from under him, leaving him dangling painfully from the chains once more; it was worth it for what came next as the creature turned around.

The Faun carefully inched its hooves beneath Sherlock’s legs and backed up to him, grasping his cock and slowly impaling himself on it. Sherlock gasped, his eyes wide with shock as he watched his cock disappear beneath that flickering white tail. Once he was fully ensconced the Buck paused to pant and let them both adjust to the sensation. Sherlock had never felt such torturous pleasure in his life. His cock throbbed almost painfully and he was sweating profusely. The Satyr in front of him was in the same boat, his skin shimmering beautifully in the afternoon sun. Sherlock was almost overwhelmed by the most ridiculous urge to lick a bead of sweat that must have been tickling on its way down his neck and between his shoulder blades.

Once the Satyr had collected himself a bit he slowly pushed up with his arms until he was leaning back against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock braced his feet in the ground, panting, as electricity seemed to fly between every point of contact on their bodies. The Buck’s horns were right beside his head, but he found himself admiring their striations instead of fearing them. The Buck lifted himself up and then dropped down on Sherlock’s cock again and they both let out a startled cry of pleasure. He flew over him after that, his muscular legs flexing against Sherlock’s thighs as he rode his cock with wild abandon, fisting his own cock enthusiastically. Sherlock writhed and arched his back, trying to get deeper into that tight, wet, heat. The Faun thrust back harder and Sherlock felt himself close to the edge already.

“Oh, gods, oh fuck, oh YES!” Sherlock was coming, fast and hard, his eyes rolling back in his head, and he screamed even louder as the Faun’s muscles clenched around him so tightly he could barely _breath_ through the pleasure as his cock was milked of every drop of seed in his body.

_I just lost my virginity_. Sherlock’s dazed mind informed him.

The Faun had only faltered a bit as his own orgasm took him, now he was moving again, fast and steady, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was in pain or pleasure. His cock was still rock hard; in fact he thought this was the hardest he had ever been. He could _feel_ the blood pounding through it and his entire body felt suffused with heat – as though fire raged in his veins instead of blood.

The Faun was babbling something in Greek but Sherlock caught not a lick of it as the creature’s body arched and bowed until he thought his spine would snap. Certainly Sherlock’s shoulders would be wrenched from their sockets as the lovely Buck pleasured himself on Sherlock’s prick. Not that he _cared_ at the moment, mind you.

The Buck came again and Sherlock swore as those muscles clenched him again, but he was rational enough this time to look down and watch as the white ribbons spurted out from the Satyr’s massive cock and painted stripes in the ground in front of him. Sherlock watched that hand fly over the pink-tipped cock in utter fascination, his mind putting his _own_ hand there and wondering how the Buck would feel; hard steel sheathed in velvet? Would his skin be thicker than Sherlock’s? Would his come taste different or the same?

“Oh, gods, I think I’m…”

Sherlock cried out in bliss as his bollocks drew up and his entire world seemed to explode with the force of his second orgasm. He bucked his hips and rattled his chains and screamed for all he was worth.

Then he went limp and winced as the Buck tried to keep riding him, but his Human body was spent and he was quickly growing flaccid. The Satyr gave a pained whine, pulling himself forward to wank himself frantically as Sherlock watched in amazement as that pale hole winked at him from it’s nest of short fur, tail flicking above it and a bit of Sherlock’s semen leaking out.

The Satyr babbled in Greek again and Sherlock tried to memorize the sounds so he could translate it later, but his meaning was soon clear as the Buck turned around and lifted Sherlock’s thighs again.

“No, no, no, no, no!” Sherlock pleaded, head shaking frantically, but the Buck was whimpering in need, his eyes closed, too far lost in lust to pay him any mind.

Sherlock cried out as that thick member pressed inside of him, but his body was stretched and relaxed enough post coitus that the pain was minimal. The Buck slid in using a handful of his own spunk as lubricant and Sherlock stared down at the ridiculously long appendage as it went further and further into his quivering body. Sherlock gasped and gasped and tried not to buck his hips as his prostate was nudged and sparks went off behind his eyelids. Finally the Satyr was balls deep inside of him and he held a moment, panting and whimpering as though in pain, before beginning to thrust.

He started off slowly, for which Sherlock was perversely grateful, but was soon picking up speed. Sherlock’s cock showed renewed interest; much to Sherlock’s shock, and the buck wrapped a hand around it to stroke him to full hardness.

“I can’t…” Sherlock moaned, “I can’t possibly come again. Oh, gods, stop, please stop, please stop, _please_ _stop…”_

The Buck mistook his pleading for enthusiasm and sped up, his hips snapping forward and burying him deep inside of Sherlock’s aching body. He could feel his muscles beginning to clench at the Satyr as he neared an orgasm that promised to be the end of him with its intensity. Sherlock could feel it building through every inch of his body as even the soles of his feet arched in anticipation. He was being stimulated in ways he had never thought possible, and when the Satyr’s lips touched his he devoured that mouth as though starved for him. The Faun moaned appreciatively and added a twist to his wrist as he stroked Sherlock’s cock that sent him tumbling over into an abyss of pleasure. Sherlock’s body bucked and danced helplessly in the chains, his empty bollocks clenching helplessly as they tried to squeeze out an orgasm that simply _wasn’t_ possible. Sherlock screamed and screamed, and the Buck filled him with hot come, the warmth only adding to Sherlock’s unparalleled pleasure.

He must have blacked out, because when he opened his eyes next he was being carried. This Satyr was dark of skin and hair and Sherlock had a momentary fear that he was going to be raped by the entire tribe, but he was laid down on a bed of straw in a small hut and his own Buck was laid down beside him by another Satyr. A blanket was gently placed over them and the two Satyrs who had carried them to his Buck’s home left while grunting between each other in Satyrese.

Sherlock couldn’t move. His shoulder’s ached horribly and his asshole burned. He couldn’t feel himself leaking and he wasn’t sweaty anymore, so he must have been cleaned while he’d been unconscious. Beside him the Buck nuzzled close, breathing in his scent and stroking his cheek gently.

_He has no idea he raped me. No idea I wanted it to stop. Did I want it to stop? I’ve never felt such pleasure; never felt so close to anyone. No… that’s the post-coital hormone talking– all that oxytocin telling me that I’m emotionally connected to this Buck. No, men release dopamine, the pleasure hormone, so these responses are related to a need to repeat that pleasurable feeling, i.e. sex addiction. Still… is that so bad? I’ve been so alone. No one has ever held me like this, as though I’m precious to him or her. He doesn’t even know my name. I don’t know his. We’re strangers who just fucked each other unconscious. Gods, the feel of him! Around me! Inside me!_

Sherlock moaned and felt the muscles inside of him clench and spasm in remembered pleasure. The Buck gave him a gentle squeeze and then rolled him gently over onto his stomach.

_No! Not again! My heart will give out! I can’t!_

Sherlock was so exhausted he couldn’t even protest, but apparently sex wasn’t in the cards this time. Instead the Buck gently straddled his waist and began rubbing his sore shoulders, seeming to inspect him for injury. Sherlock whimpered in pain, but they were apparently not dislocated as he’d originally thought and the Buck increased pressure until Sherlock was moaning in relief as the soothing motions of the Buck’s fingers released the hot pain.

Kisses rained down on his shoulders once he was able to relax them again, and he felt tears prick his eyes at the sheer intimacy of the moment. Sherlock was a man who was unused to physical contact, whose parents never touched to comfort or sooth their children, who had never taken a lover out of distrust of the people around him. How had this creature penetrated every defense he had while simultaneously violating his body?

Sherlock was gently rolled over and kisses pressed to his tearstained cheeks. The Buck asked him something in Greek, but Sherlock merely shook his head. He didn’t understand a word and it was daunting that he couldn’t speak a word to this creature that lacked definition for him. Rapist? Lover? Friend? Captor? Husband?

The Faun pressed his hand to his chest and said a word then touched Sherlock’s bare chest with the tips of his fingers.

Names?

“Djawn,” The Buck repeated, tapping his chest, then tapped Sherlock’s once more.

“Sherlock,” He stated, then touched his Buck’s chest with his own fingertips, “John.”

The Buck chuckled, shaking his head in the near darkness of the hut, and tapped his chest again.

“Djawn,” He corrected.

Sherlock snorted, “That sounds ridiculous. This is England, not Greece or Africa or wherever that ridiculous appellation came from. You are John,” Sherlock tapped his chest again, “John.”

The Satyr apparently found him hilarious, because he rested his forehead against his shoulder and laughed gaily. Sherlock sighed in annoyance. He hated being laughed at, and wasn’t it just his luck that he’d already managed to convince his Satyr… whatever-he-was-to-him… that he was a freak. Then John lifted his head and smiled down at Sherlock – his white teeth flashing in the dim morning light.

“John,” He agreed with a nod, then kissed Sherlock’s forehead, “Sherlock.”

“Quite right,” Sherlock insisted with a nod.

John settled down beside Sherlock, his fingers entwined with his, and murmured what was probably ‘goodmorning Sherlock’ before tucking an arm beneath his own head and slowly drifting off. Sherlock was so drained that he simply drifted off as well, without even attempting to plan the next day’s actions.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/52328.html)


	2. Chapter 2

John woke up with a yawn and a stretch that went all the way down to his tail and back up. His hazy memory recalled a beautiful scent and the feel of a lover inside and around him and he reached out to touch the gorgeous creature. John groped for a moment, found nothing, and sat up in confusion. His lover was gone. Odd. He’d been as gentle as possible with him despite the Rut, but he would still have been sore. He can’t have gone far…

John left his hut and glanced around, smirking as he saw his new Buck crouching by a fire with his shirt tied around his waist. He’d have to find a way to tell him that clothes weren’t necessary here, but in the mean time he could see the dear thing wanted food. He noticed John approaching and looked up; John noted his discomfort and decided he probably needed to relieve himself as well. Of course Sherlock was from off the reservation so he wouldn’t know where or how they did it.

John had never been off the reservation himself, but he knew of others who had and that Satyrs lived very different lives outside of the reservations. He knew about the oppression and how lucky he had been to be born after it when Satyrs had been given their freedom. He was stunned, however, to find this lovely young Halfling Buck tied to a tree! He wondered if the Humans had done it because he’d gone on Rut, because he was half Satyr, or if he was being punished for some reason; John rather thought the latter, but he was glad it had happened. There weren’t any other gay Bucks on the reservation and John had only ever gotten a leg over when a Buck went on Rut and was desperate enough to ask him to bend over. Last night was the first time he’d gotten to be inside of _anyone_ and he’d been thrilled at how responsive the Buck had been. Their cuddling afterwards had sealed the deal – this Buck was clearly interested in his own gender so John wasn’t letting him out of his site. He’d gone far too long without a steady lover and now he meant to make Sherlock his husband.

John showed Sherlock to the outhouse and left him to his business, chortling at the look of disgust on his face when he emerged. Then he led him to the creek to wash up. Sherlock looked much relieved once they had both bathed, and he didn’t hesitate when John took his hand and led him to the food hut. In their culture all the Bucks gathered, farmed, or hunted; Does cooked, cleaned, and minded the huts and Kidds. Everyone had a task to complete. Sometimes a Buck or a Doe felt they should perform the opposite task; that was okay too, though John hunted and gathered despite preferring his own gender. He wasn’t a stereotype and he meant to show Sherlock that. He was strong and would provide for them and their Kidds.

Once he had his lover set up with food they knelt down on the communal mats and several Satyr gathered around, offering congratulations and asking when they’d be married. John was enthusiastic, but explained that Sherlock didn’t speak their language. Since John didn’t want any miscommunications occurring, he was going to postpone the wedding until then. Sherlock stuck close to him the entire time, glancing around nervously.

It was then John started to notice an odd smell. Sherlock had still smelt like a Buck that morning, but he no longer did. This confused John and he decided he’d better take Sherlock to be checked on by their medicine woman. Agaat was a wizened Doe with a long head of white hair that reached to her feet when unbraided. John thought it was beautiful.

“He’s not a Faun, you silly thing,” Agaat chortled, giving John a shove so she could reach something on the shelf behind him. Her hut was filled to the ceiling with shelves of odd things in clay jars and bags or bushels of herbs. The smell was heady and thick and tended to make one sleepy.

“Well, he’s half-Faun. He has to be.”

“No, he doesn’t, and he isn’t,” Agaat stated firmly, though not unkindly..

“What is he, then?”

“A Human. A Man. They call themselves Male.”

“That’s impossible. He smelled of Rut when we met. We mated!” John stammered, gesturing to Sherlock in confusion.

Sherlock was edging towards the doorway, his eyes widening in alarm, and John hastened to comfort him. Once he had soothed his lover he turned back to Agaat, his arms still wrapped around Sherlock’s waist.

“What do we do?” He asked in despair.

“Nothing. You can’t change what you’re born as.”

“But… I… he’s the only one like me I know,” John replied, trying not to sound as pathetic as he felt.

“You can’t change what you’re born as,” Agaat repeated with a shrug.

John led Sherlock out of the hut, confused and frustrated. It made no sense. He _knew_ what he had smelled. He’d made certain when he’d bent down and breathed in Sherlock’s scent from his nether regions. Sherlock was a Faun, a Buck, a _gay_ Buck, and _his_ gay Buck lover. They were going to marry and have little Kidds together.

John gave Sherlock a miserable look and saw understanding in his eyes for the first time.

“You know, don’t you? You know I’ve found out what you are… or aren’t… and now we both have to make a decision,” John sighed, pressing close to the Man and breathing in his musky, foreign scent.

“John?” Sherlock asked, and John raised his head to look into his eyes again.

He looked sad but restless, but that only made it worse because then he _knew_ what Sherlock’s decision was. John led them back to his own hut, stalling for time while he tried to figure out how to communicate with him. He _had_ to convince him to stay. He _had_ to.

Finally John decided on the most basic form of communication – pictures. He left the hut and returned with a stick to draw in the dirt, leaving the flap open for light. Sherlock watched as John drew a Satyr and a Human, and then drew a baby inside his own stomach.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm and he made protesting noises, and then rubbed out the picture of a baby. John wasn’t sure what to make of that so he drew one in Sherlock’s belly instead. Sherlock rubbed that out, too, looking angry this time and shaking his head firmly from side to side. John was flustered; they _still_ weren’t communicating very well.

John re-drew the baby in his own belly and then drew lines pointing to Sherlock’s figure. He erased Sherlock’s arms and re-drew them reaching out towards John. Sherlock studied the picture for a moment and nodded his head. John felt a surge of relief; at the very least he would be there for John if he turned up in a family way. He could raise the child alone, of course, but he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted his child’s father by his side.

John redrew the pictures again, this time with a baby in Sherlock’s belly and his own arms held out. Sherlock gave him a frustrated look, huffed out his breath, and smudged out the baby image again. John re-drew it; Sherlock smudged it out, then stood up and stamped on both images.

John stared at it all in horror. He’d heard of some Does using sticks to abort unwanted pregnancies, but he’d never really thought anyone he knew would do that. True, sometimes too many Kidds could become problematic, but unless Sherlock already had several, _one_ was a beautiful gift! He turned pleading eyes up to Sherlock and clasped his hands, unashamedly begging him not to do such a thing.

Sherlock sighed and then rubbed his belly, shaking his head and frowning exaggeratedly. John blinked in confusion. Sherlock knelt again and re-drew his own figure before adding a baby and then crossing it out adamantly. He pressed his hand to his abdomen and shook his head again.

“You can’t get pregnant?” John asked, and then recalled his reluctance to be penetrated.

Suddenly it all made sense; human males must not be able to conceive that way! If so, then Sherlock wouldn’t have understood John’s longing to be inside of him. He must have wanted an experience with his own gender, but found it impossible with his own race, so he’d found a way to smell like Rut and come here to get what he’d wanted. Something must have gone wrong, perhaps his own kind hated Men who were gay, and he’d ended up chained to that tree. John felt his spirits drop as he realized he had simply been an experiment to this Man; he’d been used for sex just like all the rest of his people had while they’d been slaves. It made sense for Humans to see him that way since it wasn’t that long ago that they were sex slaves. After all, up until yesterday John would have told you that he’d either flee from or attack a Human the instant he saw them.

How odd that prejudice could be a double-edged sword.

John sighed in misery, nodded his understanding, and gestured for Sherlock to rise. Sherlock followed him silently all the way to the tree they’d found him chained to. His friend Claara had picked the lock using a bit of metal she’d found some time ago. She liked to sneak out of the reservation and explore the Human world and had learned to pick locks to ease her way. The chains were still there, but Sherlock did not seem inclined to collect them. Instead he gave John a curt nod and headed off in the direction of the Human world.

John followed at a distance for a while; not wanting to repeat that cold farewell, until he was certain Sherlock had reached the edge of the reservation safely. He saw him heading for a group of buildings in the distance – a school if he recalled correctly – and made a mental note of it in case he needed to find him again. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t come looking for him in a few months to see if his belly was growing.

John watched him go with an ache in his chest and longing in his womb.


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 3

WARNING: You are going to HATE Sherlock for the 1st half of this chapter, but I promise it gets better. Just hang on and google a bit of psychology if some of this doesn’t make sense. Basically this is my Sherlockian take on a psychological response to sexual assault.

Some Geography: I have chosen Oxford as Sherlock’s University in this AU and modified the geography around it. Basically the reservation is the entire area west, northwest of Oxford including the Farmoor Reservoir. We’re going to pretend that whole area got transferred over to them after the slaves were freed in 1962 (See Satyr History and Terminology for details on Satyr liberation). The roads have not been maintained and some are impassable due to tree fall. The fields are owned and worked by the Satyr, though villages have cropped up in some. Click [HERE](http://eychloii.tumblr.com/private/49186654219/tumblr_mm10kuAOTp1s7yz50) for a map overview of the Reservation (made by yours truly).

Sherlock had absolutely no compunction when it came to reporting his assault; in fact he balked at the very idea of leaving it unreported and silently snubbed those who hid their attacks out of some unrealistic sense of self-blame. The Dean was shocked and horrified by his story, wrapped him in his own jacket after Sherlock had stormed his office half-naked and shouted out what his dorm mates had done to him in a fit of temper, and called both the campus therapist and an ambulance to take him to hospital.

“Exactly what kind of University are you running in the first place?” Sherlock demanded while the man pressed tea into his hands, “I’ve half a mind to transfer to Cambridge! They practically _begged_ me to go there!”

“Mr. Holmes, I assure you the culprits will be dealt with immediately!”

“My brother will be hearing about this,” Sherlock snapped, flaunting his brother’s authority shamelessly.

The Dean paled considerably: “I’m certain we can work something out without involving Mr. Mycroft…”

“Then why are you not employing your legal right to have their rooms searched already? They may be disposing of evidence as we speak, as my half-naked stroll across campus has certainly been made note of!”

The Dean practically fled his own office, leaving Sherlock to sip his tea in peace. The police and ambulance arrived in short order and Sherlock was questioned and examined. The ambulance crew deemed a rape kit useless since Sherlock had washed twice - bathed by the Satyr once and bathed again on his own since then- but they still wanted him to go to the hospital to have a full examination. Sherlock was a bit alarmed to see he’d been bleeding a bit on his nice button down shirt which had been serving as an impromptu loin cloth up until now. He’d been sore, yes, but he hadn’t realized there had been damage. The paramedic consoled him by saying it couldn’t be too bad or he’d be bleeding a good deal more.

“This is all a bit complicated,” The police officer, a prematurely graying young man named Lestrade, explained to Sherlock carefully, “You see by law Satyr’s can’t be convicted of rape when they’re on Rut, and normally we’d be accusing you, but the fact that you were essentially bound and drugged changes things a great deal. I’m not going to lie to you, son, you’re going to be put on the stand and grilled. Lots of people are going to want to blame you for this – and I’m not saying it’s your fault, quite the opposite, in fact- but you’re going to be put through the ringer. The Faun who assaulted you will end up on trial as well, and he may choose to press charges against _you_ as well as the lads who did this to you. You’re going to need a good lawyer if you want to press charges. Are you sure you want to?”

“Of course I’m sure, you ignorant pig, would you have me go back to my dorms and continue to co-habituate with these violent twats?! Neither will I flee the school as though _I_ were the one in the wrong! They will be brought to justice _immediately_ and never you mind about how good a lawyer I can come up with!”

Sergeant Lestrade nodded his head, giving him a respectful look, and was headed towards the door to return to the Yard and file his report when Sherlock stopped him.

“Oh, and Sergeant?”

“Yeah, Mr. Holmes?”

“I am not your _son_.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes, beg pardon,” Lestrade gave him an exaggerated mock-bow and ignored Sherlock’s indignantly raised eyebrow.

Sherlock decided he was fond of the fellow.

Mycroft arrived in short order, meeting Sherlock as he arrived at hospital, and was close to apoplexy until he saw how calm Sherlock was. Then he settled down with a paper cup of decaf coffee from the hospital cafe and watched him very carefully.

“I’m not about to break down in self-pitying tears, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Sherlock stated from his comfortable hospital bed. His brother had, of course, gotten him his own private room.

“Most would be traumatized by what you suffered,” Mycroft explained, “The doctors are wondering that the physical damage is not worse considering by your own claim you were ill prepared by your Human assailants.”

“I was only penetrated during one of the sex acts,” Sherlock explained calmly, but was rather alarmed when his body gave a sudden clench.

“Something wrong?”

“I… no. No, of course not.”

“If you require someone with a psychological degree to speak to…”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I had a physiological reaction to that statement, doubtlessly a response that will diminish over time.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, “What sort of physiological response?”

“My muscles clenched, that’s all; I was caught off guard by the image that induced.”

“Sherlock, there is no shame in seeking professional counsel after a traumatic event.”

“I. Am. Fine.” Sherlock snarled angrily.

He _was_ fine. He was far more concerned for the Satyr in question; whom he had been informed by a detective had been collected from the reservation a few minutes ago. He didn’t know what he’d do if the Satyr turned up pregnant. A child at his youthful age was hardly conducive to finishing his degree and making his way in the world. At the very least it would be inconvenient and a family scandal worthy of disinheritance, especially since the would-be-child and his ‘lover’ were Satyrs. Also, he had barely had a proper conversation with the creature; he wasn’t sure how John felt about what had happened between them, but he’d rather gotten the impression the Buck was a bit attached to him and expected a commitment of some kind. Certainly he had been hanging on him rather much until he’d spoken to that witch doctor- or whatever the Doe had been. He’d been rather concerned they would try to press their savage medicinal nonsense on him, but she had apparently informed the Buck that Sherlock couldn’t be impregnated if the conversation that had followed had been any indication. The Buck had been rather upset about that, but Sherlock had done his best to reassure him that if he turned out to be up the duff that he’d provide for them.

Still, it had been surprisingly difficult to walk away from the young Buck. Sherlock attributed his unusual feelings of sentiment to the outpouring of dopamine and oxytocin that had resulted from their union; the feelings would fade over time and he would no longer clench at the thought of the Buck invading his…

Sherlock shuddered as his muscles clenched and an _empty_ feeling surged through him. The idea of the Buck pressing inside of him, the feel of his prostate being stimulated nearly to the point of pain, the memory of the unbelievably overwhelming orgasm that had resulted left Sherlock suddenly flushed and achingly hard.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked in concern.

“I feel ill,” Sherlock breathed, and motioned for a bucket. Mycroft passed it to him and Sherlock indicated he wanted the man to leave, while leaning forward and pretending he might be sick.

Mycroft fled with a look of disgust while Sherlock tried to figure out what to do about his current predicament. He had masturbated before, though rarely, but this was different. He was in a public place – regardless of his private room – and the very idea that his normally intellectual mind was bombarding him with sexual imagery was alarming to say the least. He felt utterly out of control and had the most intense urge to go seek out John’s room and demand he satisfy the unbearable urge he’d placed within Sherlock’s normally obedient transport.

_This is ludicrous_ , Sherlock thought, _I’m fantasizing about my_ rapist _, no matter how unwilling a participant he may have been. Besides, my body is not yet healed from the_ last _time. I would certainly tear if we engaged in sexual intercourse again so soon._

Sherlock recited mathematical equations until the urge passed and he was able to stretch out and get some much-needed sleep, but it was hardly the end of the matter.

XXXXXXXXXXX

A translator had been provided for John, but he was still struggling to understand what was going on despite the language barrier being broken. He was accused of rape, but considered a victim at the same time? A reservation lawyer had been provided him and was urging him to press charges against _Sherlock_. John refused. He also refused to press charges against the four faceless individuals who were accused of drugging them both. He was unaware of the situation and maintained his innocence.

“If I’d known Sherlock was unwilling or drugged I _never_ would have continued,” John insisted passionately, “Let me talk to Sherlock. Let me talk to these men. This has to be a misunderstanding.”

Despite his insistence, he knew it made more sense than his own wild theories as to how Sherlock had ended up in that situation. When they questioned as to why he thought that Sherlock had been chained to a tree his only argument was that he’d 1) tried to get him down and 2) been horny as fucking _hell_ due to how delicious the Buck had smelled.

Then he’d had to explain why he’d called Sherlock a Buck and blushed furiously as they snickered at his naïveté. In the end Sherlock didn’t press charges against him and John refused to press charges against anyone. After taking his statement and making sure they could reach him again, he was sent back to the reservation with a mountain of guilt and a broken heart.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock needed to experiment. He had to find out what had suddenly triggered this bazaar craving to have something inserted into his rectum, and the only way to figure out what could have caused it was to re-enact portions of the original stimulus and determine which was the definite cause. So once he had healed – he had been warned away from receiving penetration for a full week – he discreetly ordered some sex toys and began experimenting.

**Theory: The stimulation of the prostate releases dopamine – the pleasure hormone - and causes those with addictive personalities to crave a repeat of the process.**

**Test 1: Subject is stimulated anally with a phallus until reaching orgasm.**

**Results: Subject feels some sexual gratification, but still does not feel ‘full’ sensation or the hormonal high previously achieved.**

**Hypothesis: More is required than simple stimulation. Requires more data to reach conclusion.**

Sherlock frowned at his data and went looking for a test subject. He found one in a rather suave looking fellow by the name of Jim Moriarty. They had Greek together and he was often ‘making eyes’ at Sherlock, so Sherlock winked back at him and the fellow eagerly stopped to talk to him after class. They found when they each had free time and Moriarty showed up at his door with a gift of a bottle of rather fine wine. Sherlock was pleased with it and invited him in. Rather than socialize as the young man thought they were bound to do, Sherlock simply handed him a condom and a bottle of lube.

“Would you mind having a meaningless one-off with me? And by one-off I do mean it will be once only, with no contact to follow,” Sherlock stated firmly.

Moriarty grinned wickedly and dropped his trousers in response. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised to find the man well endowed and set about preparing himself for anal sex.

_Well endowed for a human_ , Sherlock thought, _But that phallus was about the size of John and did little besides make me sore, so perhaps size really isn’t everything._

The problem was that Moriarty was apparently rather inexperienced and the entire process lasted only a few rather eager and unpleasant thrusts. The man was embarrassed and wanted another go once he was able to get hard again, but Sherlock threw him out without preamble. He kept the wine.

Sherlock followed that up with a fresh experiment immediately that evening. He found himself a rather muscular young man who was known to prefer both genders and asked him for a one-off as well. The man promptly bent him over a bench in the locker rooms and buggered him senseless. This time the problem was on Sherlock’s end. He was heatedly aroused at first, both by the location, situation, and all those muscles, but the man _smelled_ wrong to him. He noticed it almost immediately. Where John had smelled strongly of sweat, grass, and something distinctly musky and _John_ , this man just smelled of perspiration and sports equipment; it was virtually a turn off. Though the man worked hard to satisfy Sherlock physically, and Sherlock did climax before him, he was left feeling uncomfortable with the entire incident. The goliath noticed Sherlock’s discomfort while they both dressed and tried to console him, insisting that most men felt a bit off after bottoming for the first time. Sherlock curtly told him he wasn’t the first and stormed off.

The next few days proved the same results no matter whom Sherlock brought to his bed – men or women, young or old, athletic or heavy set. Sherlock was sometimes unable to orgasm at all, especially when he’d taken mousy Molly Hooper to bed and found that women simply _weren’t_ his area. He hadn’t even been able to maintain an erection for long and had eventually dismissed her. She’d cried, but he hardly felt bad for her, she was the one who wanted a one-off with some guy she hardly knew.

Something about that last thought niggled at Sherlock, but he didn’t place what it was until he opened his door the next morning to find a literally _line_ of young men wanting to fuck him. Word had gotten out about his promiscuous behavior and even a few supposedly straight gents had shown up hoping for a morning shag. Sherlock slammed the door in horror.

_I’ve become a slut. My gods, when did that happen? What the hell am I doing?_

Sherlock grabbed his shower gear and snarled at his waiting suitors before heading off to the loo. One of them waylaid him with pretty promises and a throbbing erection just as he was about to step into a stall. Sherlock wavered and the man saw it and pressed him up against the wall. Sherlock was soon panting and moaning as the man fingered him with soapy fingers. Not ten minutes later, when he was thoroughly satisfied and Sherlock was most definitely _not_ the man thanked him perfunctorily and walked away. Sherlock stood there in horror, a stranger’s semen dripping out of his body, and realized they hadn’t even used protection.

Sherlock turned on the shower and did anything he could think of to get the stuff out of him, but he knew that was hardly going to solve his problem. He would have to get tested again; and his results from his ‘rape’ by John had only just come back the day before. What if he’d just caught something?

Sherlock didn’t know when he’d started crying, he simply found himself on his knees on the floor sobbing brokenly, arms wrapped around him as he rocked back and forth and blubbered miserably. He missed his first class, but he doubted anyone would come looking for him as he was utterly friendless. The water had long gone cold when someone noticed him curled up in the corner of the shower – naked and still crying softly – and went to get help.

The University’s therapist had tried to get Sherlock to talk to him many times after his rape, which had not been made very public since Lestrade – who turned out to be a better cop than Sherlock had originally assumed – had gotten confessions from the four young men. Dr. Katinski was concerned that Sherlock was feeling guilty, used, perhaps even angry that only one of them had actively been charged with rape and administering a controlled substance while the other’s got away with aggravated assault and kidnapping. Sherlock had refused his every attempt at communication and skipped every meeting the man set up.

Now Dr. Katinski stood over him, dressed in a full suit while Sherlock cowered in his birthday suit, shut off the shower and draped a towel over Sherlock’s shaking form.

“You might catch your death, Sherlock, you’ve almost certainly got hypothermia. Can you walk?”

Sherlock shook his head ‘no’ and for the second time that month an ambulance was called for him. This time Mycroft would hear no excuses that he was mentally fine; Sherlock was placed in a mental health facility while Mycroft made arrangements for him to transfer to Cambridge to negate the social scandal he’d managed to start at Oxford. Sherlock remained uncommunicative; he was utterly disgusted by himself and wanted nothing more than to disappear.

Probably worse than his humiliation, his utter lack of self-control, and the fact his brother was having to pick up the pieces for him, was the fact he was now afraid to face John. The entire time he’d been ‘experimenting’ Sherlock had been unwilling to allow himself to think of the Satyr, but now he was all that occupied his mind. What would John think? Would John understand his behavior? Forgive him for it? Think him used and sullied? He had no idea what kind of personality or moral compunctions the Buck had. It was entirely possible that he would be disgusted by Sherlock in the extreme; he might even refuse to allow him access to any children Sherlock might have sired with him.

It was with this panicked thought in mind that Sherlock waited for the results of his STD testing. Once he received them – all in the clear – he began to make his plans. It would be weeks, if not months depending on if he went to hospital, before John found out if he were pregnant or not. In that short period of time Sherlock had to find the Satyr and convince him to fall in love with him, because Sherlock was now convinced that the conclusion to his experimentation was clear; Sherlock was ‘in love’ with the Faun – a singular experience as he didn’t even love his own parents or brother. His inexperience had caused him to miss the obvious signs, and now that he was aware of his affliction he could remedy it.

**Conclusion: Only John could give him the physical, emotional, sexual, and mental satisfaction he had been seeking this entire time.**

Sherlock gave his conclusion a mental nod and filed it away under the section of his Mind Palace that had apparently appeared over-night – it was labeled ‘John’. Once all this had been done Sherlock broke into the locker that housed his shoes and other possessions in the sanitarium and quietly escaped while everyone slept. By morning he was well on his way back to the reservation and his Satyr lover.

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/52788.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 4

John hadn’t had an orgasm since Sherlock had left him. He’d had plenty of erections – every healthy Buck did – but he hadn’t come once, not even during sleep. He was needy with it, but his only source of desire now was Sherlock, and the guilt that filled him was so overwhelming that he would end up limp and miserable. So he waffled back and forth between deeply depressed and wildly aroused until Agaat intervened and made him go hunting with the other Bucks ‘for his health’.

The other Bucks knew what had happened, of course, and some had taken the attitude that John was some sort of pervert and had purposely raped Sherlock. They brought it to the elders that he was a danger to them and would bring the Humans down on them. The elders had told them off, explaining that they had spoken to the Humans and they did not blame John.

The other Bucks, the ones who did not blame him, felt bad for him for loosing a potential mate. One suggested he go to a different village and look for other gay Bucks, but John didn’t want to leave his aging mother and she was unwilling to leave the village she had worked so hard to build with his recently deceased father. Another one suggested what John needed was a good buggering and offered to do the job, just this once and because he hadn’t gotten any tail in a while. John wasn’t sure if he should be offended or interested, but he turned the Buck down with an apology either way. He couldn’t do that to Sherlock. Uninterested, unwilling, unwanted, it simply didn’t matter; the pale Human with the Faun-like curly hair had entranced him.

Johns mother tried to convince him to forget the lad, that it was his first love and that made it more painful but not more lasting. She tried to convince him to leave her, even for just a bit, and look for a Buck at the next village over. John dashed her hopes by explaining he’d already checked there; no gay Bucks either. John had asked Agaat if his urges were abnormal but she had assured him they were not.

“We’ve got too many Does, is all,” She explained calmly, “When there are enough Does less Bucks are born wanting other Bucks. Wait till the population changes or go to a village less evenly disbursed. You’ll see.”

That was hardly comforting, especially now that the only person John wanted was Sherlock. He didn’t even know his last name.

John’s arrow took another pheasant straight out of the sky and he received some admiring glances from his fellow hunters. He was the best shot of them on a bad day, but today he was truly magnificent and he knew it. One of them joked that he shot better with a broken heart, and perhaps he would give up his position as hunter and become a warrior instead now that he was cold and angry. John shrugged indifferently and ignored his friends angrily elbowing that Buck for his comment. Out of bloody nowhere he got another erection and groaned in frustration.

His friends snickered and one of them pointed to a copse of trees that would provide some privacy. He grinned meekly and headed over, leaning against one and leaning his bow against another. He wrapped a hand around his sensitive dick and tried to blank his mind out so he could just focus on the pleasure. A few quick strokes would do it if he could just not picture…

_Sherlock, his head thrown back in pleasure, neck tendons bulging as his prick pulsed in his hand and his muscles clamped down around his own aching erection. John pressing inside of him, fast and hard, and the soft keening noises he made as John stimulated his prostate until…_

John cried out as he came hard across the ground, his cock pulsing hard and his orgasm making his head spin. He slid down to the ground, panting in relief, and trying to enjoy the afterglow, but the guilt flooded in again. He’d just been fantasizing about _raping_ the Man he claimed to love. What the hell was wrong with him? Those angry Bucks were right – he wasn’t right in the head and was quite possibly dangerous.

John wiped his hand on the ground, grabbed a few leaves to clean up some mess on his thigh, and hurried off to rejoin his fellow hunters.

“Did you have to be so loud, Djawn?” Dimitri hissed at him angrily, “You scared off a deer.”

John sighed out an apology and the group moved on to another area. They ended with quite a haul and headed home to turn them into the Does who would start the skinning and smoking process. Most of this would be dried into jerky for winter, but if they were lucky some of it would be stewed tonight and make a lovely supper tomorrow.

The village was quiet and tense when they arrived and John and the other Bucks hurriedly dropped their food and readied their weapons. They slipped around the sides of the village, keeping close to the huts and searching for whatever had spooked the Does into hiding the Kidds indoors. The answer was waiting in John’s hut.

Sherlock was back.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock had no difficulty whatsoever in finding John’s village again; his memory was superb after all. When he arrived, however, he found mostly elderly, Does, and Kidds running about. He smiled cheerily at them, though internally he was debating the intelligence of leaving a village so undefended, and headed for John’s hut. He was met with a row of Doe archers and glanced behind himself to see more there. So much for undefended.

“Djawn?” Sherlock asked, but the women only scowled at him more.

One Doe stepped forward, lowered her bow, and took out a knife instead. She very calmly motioned for him to follow her. Sherlock was fairly certain that he could hold his own against her, but he wasn’t about to risk alienating himself further. The Doe guided him to John’s hut and sentries were posted to keep him in whenever he thought to poke his head out.

_Thank goodness I don’t need to use the toilet… er… outhouse._

Sherlock settled down on John’s straw bed to wait, but it was a good few hours before John arrived, and when he did slip into the hut he gave Sherlock an almost fearful look.

“ **Hello,** John **,”** Sherlock stated, employing the Greek he’d picked up so far. He was far from fluent, but he was getting there and would progress faster now that he had several people to speak to in the language.

“ **Hello,** Sherlock **. You’ve learned Greek.** ”

**“I speak a little Greek,”** He replied, blushing at the textbook response, but John smiled warmly and he flushed with desire.

“ **Why are you here?** ” John asked, though his soft eyes belied his question.

Sherlock had practiced this in the sanitarium when all he had were his schoolbooks to keep him company.

**“I want to stay with you. I want to be your husband.”**

There it was; risk taken and heart bared. Sherlock had been given everything he’d ever wanted in life except love, now that he thought it might be in sight he found himself willing to trade every shiny toy his parents had ever offered him for the chance to _feel_. He had scorned sentiment, laughed at his peers fumbles and foolish actions over love, and ignored his body’s needs up until this point. Now he that he saw something worth being a sentimental fool for, he found it was exhilarating to offer himself up.

The look on John’s face was worth it. The Buck gaped at him a moment, then a look of relief and hope crossed his face. When he smiled and rushed forward with a happy cry, Sherlock put his arms out eagerly and they were soon pressed together, limbs tangled and mouths hungrily pressed together. Sherlock was aching with need and John didn’t hesitate to respond. His clothes were quickly peeled off and John fetched an urn full of some sort of oil. Sherlock found himself panting as John’s slick fingers filled his body. John took longer to prepare him than his trysts had; stretching him gently and thoroughly, but never frustrating him as he rained down kisses, nips, and even licked at the dripping head of his cock when Sherlock became heatedly aroused.

When the blunt head of John’s thick, long cock pressed against Sherlock’s entrance he had a moment of fear that he would be injured again, but the gentle glide in that followed that first push past his muscles was virtually painless. He sighed into the comforting burn and wrapped his arms and legs around the Faun. He smelled perfect. He smelled like woods and sweat and musk and _John_ , and Sherlock was so close to climaxing from his scent alone that it was shameful.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John wasn’t fool enough to believe in love at first sight or think that a coupling that occurred during Rut always ended in a happy marriage, but his notions were put to the test when he stepped into his hut and Sherlock asked to marry him. Sliding into that tight, wet, heat was like coming home. John moaned and panted and pressed against Sherlock, experimenting with different motions until he found that rolling his hips worked best. Once he found the magic motion to stimulate the gorgeous Human’s prostate he kept at it until he was a whimpering mess beneath him.

Nothing compared to this. He had never felt such intense pleasure, and he was fast approaching orgasm despite his relief earlier in the day. He quickly wrapped his hands around his Human lover’s cock and got him off, elating in his passionate cries and the fingers that clawed at his back. A few more strokes inside that lovely body, easing off his prostate this time, and he was filling his lover’s body as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through him.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, burying his face against the Man’s neck and breathing in his scent.

“John,” Sherlock sighed, and went so limp beneath him he thought his lover had fainted.

John eased back to check on him and found Sherlock smiling with an utterly ridiculous grin on his face. He chuckled despite himself and slipped out of his mate. Sherlock keened in distress and held his arms up, babbling something in that strange, guttural language he spoke before attempting to say it in Greek.

**“Hold me?** ” He asked, clearly unsure if he’d gotten it right.

“ **Oh, Zues, yes!** ” John snuggled against him, mindful of his horns, and tugged a blanket over them both.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock had never felt such satisfaction. This had both nothing and everything to do with the utterly brilliant sex he’d had an hour ago with his Buck. He felt complete in a way he’d never known possible. Was this what his parents scorned as ‘sentiment’? If so, then they were a thousand times fools, because his lovely Buck made him feel as alive as working out the crimes on the news did.

No sooner did that thought cross Sherlock’s mind then it spun back to Victor Trevor and the ‘case’ he’d supplied Sherlock with after loosing a bet to him as to who had committed a crime they’d seen on the news. Victor’s father had been robbed over the summer and the police had been unable to find the culprit. Victor had wanted Sherlock to visit over the holiday and see if he could suss out the criminal and re-locate the Trevors’ stolen silver and jewelry.

John seemed to sense the change in his mood and pulled back a bit to study his face. Sherlock dove for his pants and the book he’d stuffed therein. He turned the pages and studied a moment before attempting to explain himself.

**“I have things that I need to do off of the reservation,** ” Sherlock explained in Greek.

John nodded and went to fetch a basket nearby. It was filled with clothes and John began to add to it from other things around the room; a leather pouch full of herbs, a roll of leather large enough to sleep on, the blankets off his bed. Sherlock gaped in shock; the Faun was willing to just up and _follow_ him off the reservation! Well, why not? Sherlock had been mad enough to come here. If John really was perfect for him, then he’d be willing to follow Sherlock back.

“ **We should marry first,** ” The Buck stated.

John fastened a belt to his waist and slid a large stone knife into the sheath attached to it. He pulled a loincloth out of the basket and slipped that around his privates as the law required for outside the reservation. He only put a jacket on his upper half; apparently Satyrs didn’t get as cold as humans did.

Sherlock nodded at the good sense and they left the hut hand in hand, heading towards the communal longhouse that Sherlock had dined with him in before. They pushed back the flap and the room dropped into silence. John faltered, then steeled himself and crossed the room with his head held high and Sherlock in tow.

There was a group of old Satyrs – both Buck and Doe – seated closest to the giant fire in the back of the longhouse. Sherlock got a better look at the setup now that he wasn’t mid-trauma and realized there was a second level where people apparently lived, so not all of the Satyr had individual huts like John did. Sherlock made an attempt to ask for the reason why and John laughed a bit.

**“My mother gave me her wigwam when my father died recently. She lives here with the unmarried.”**

Sherlock filed the word ‘wigwam’ away and focused on making himself comfortable. Most of the Bucks were sitting cross-legged while the females sat with their legs off to one side. Sherlock imitated the Bucks and a few people gave him startled looks. Sherlock glanced up at John to see what he’d done wrong, but the Faun dropped down beside him, sitting like the Does, and the room practically erupted.

Three Bucks had headed over to John immediately, gesturing and shouting in Satyrese. It was terrifying, and Sherlock clutched at John’s arm as his heart pounded and his mind screamed to _run_ from these predators. One of the Bucks saw his distress and pointed and laughed, then made a gesture to John and indicated a pregnant stomach on himself.

Sherlock didn’t have to be a genius to know what was going on. John’s sexuality was being challenged, though from what he knew Satyr didn’t put a great deal of emphasis on it. Sherlock had apparently chosen the hunter/provider role and John had dropped into the breeder role, which was really the only choice possible since Sherlock couldn’t carry offspring. Now Sherlock had to figure out if he should switch roles or stick to his guns. If he stuck with it he might have to prove himself, and while he could certainly hold his own he was unfamiliar with their rules and customs and might cause a bigger problem.

“ **Djawn!** ” A voice carried out over the ruckus, “ **Bring your Buck here!** ”

Sherlock was tugged to his feet and presented to the group of elderly Satyr, who looked him over cautiously.

“ **Does he speak Greek?** ” A Doe asked.

“ **Some,”** Sherlock replied.

“ **Do you intend to care for and provide for Djawn?** ”

Fuck. Sherlock would be disinherited in no time, of that he was sure, and he had never been excellent at hunting. He’d never even attempted to gather food or farm. Sherlock glanced aside at John, hoping he could tell him how to fix this situation, but John took his glance to mean it was his turn to speak.

**“I will be providing for us.** ”

“ **And bearing children?** ” The Doe asked, her lips turning up in amusement.

“ **His kind can not.** ”

The group gave Sherlock a pitying glance and nodded their understanding.

“ **What _will_ your young Buck do? Everyone must provide for the clan,” ** A Buck asked.

John gave Sherlock a worried look and repeated the question back slowly, just in case he hadn’t gotten it… or perhaps to buy him time.

Sherlock struggled with the words, he simply wasn’t proficient enough at this language yet, but he was determined to explain himself. He pulled out his dictionary again and focused on the task rather than the staring eyes.

**“I am a scientist. I can create things for you out of chemicals. I can create useful items.”**

“ **An interesting talent, but not one that will feed or warm us.** ”

**“Neither does your doctor,** ” Sherlock nodded towards Agaat, “ **But you still require her presence.”**

Agaat cackled and nudged the Buck beside her, grunting something out in Satyrese. Sherlock rather thought it might be approval.

John interrupted their discussion by explaining that they would be returning to Sherlock’s home first anyway.

“ **Sherlock has unfinished business.”** John stated firmly.

“ **Oh, I’m sure he does!** ” Agaat cackled again. Sherlock decided he liked her, but that she might be a bit mad.

Then a younger Doe was called for and given instructions, the words to fast for Sherlock to follow. She left and returned with a broom and some flowers, which she braided into a rope very quickly. She held out the broom and a knife and Sherlock watched in confusion as John carved a symbol into the broom. Sherlock wasn’t sure he understood, but he took the knife and carved his initials as a monogram. The young Doe then wrapped the flower chain around John and Sherlock’s clasped hands three times, tying the ends together between their wrists.

Agaat stood and motioned a Buck forward. The Buck and the young Doe held the broom and John tugged Sherlock towards it.

“ **We jump over it.** ” John told him.

Sherlock nodded, and smiled, realizing now what they were doing. It was some sort of native marriage ritual. Hands tightly clasped, John and Sherlock jumped over the broom. Agaat placed a hand on each of their shoulders and made a loud announcement in Satyrese, though Sherlock distinctly heard his name and ‘Djawn’. John turned Sherlock’s face towards him with a gentle touch to his cheek and pressed their lips together tenderly. Agaat removed the flowers from their wrists and carefully wound them up into a tiny bundled knot. Sherlock accepted them and cradled them protectively. John was handed the broom and they stepped away once Agaat waved a hand at them dismissively

John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, handed him the broom to keep safe, whispered for him to wait, and then headed off to get them food. Sherlock remained calm and aloof despite the glances thrown his way. One particularly nasty look came from a Doe who was entirely brown, and really quite stunning in Sherlock’s eyes. She had curly ringlets of hair that fell around her thin shoulders elegantly, and big full lips. Her bare breasts might have been distracting in their perfection, had Sherlock not already established his utter disinterest in women.

John returned with two hunks of bread that had soup _inside_ of them. He looked forward to eating them… later. John’s eyes echoed his sentiment and they headed towards the exit.

“ **You liked it?** ” John asked, regarding the ceremony.

“ **Yes.** ” Sherlock replied enthusiastically. He was about to elaborate when that dark Doe interrupted them.

She spoke in Satyrese, her voice scorning and her gestures rude, and John lowered the food onto a small table, growling and looking fit to fight her. Sherlock quickly stowed his marriage flowers and broom and automatically restrained his Buck. He had an awful feeling that it would be worse for them if a fight broke out. John went to push him aside and go after the woman again, but Sherlock quickly took him down to the floor and sat on him.

“ **Wouldn’t you rather be touching me than her?** ” Sherlock asked, and stroked his hands across his Buck’s chest, sliding them up into his jacket.

John’s pupils dilated and Sherlock felt him responding beneath him. Around him several people cheered and the angry Doe stomped off in defeat. Sherlock stood and pulled John up, thrilled when the Buck kissed him possessively before snatching up their things. When they reached John’s wigwam he dropped to his knees, tugging at the unfamiliar fastenings to Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock stripped them off eagerly and John’s mouth surrounded his cock with a hungry moan. Sherlock gasped and bucked into his mouth, panting a bit as the Faun swallowed around him expertly. Well, at least Sherlock didn’t have to worry about having taken the Buck’s innocence when he’d inadvertently ‘raped’ him!

**“Stop!** ” Sherlock pleaded, and the Buck fell backwards in his haste to release him. He looked up at Sherlock with wide, hurt eyes, but Sherlock smiled and motioned him closer as he backed towards the bed.

John’s eyes went sultry and he crawled forward on hands and knees, his hips shifting in a serpentine dance as he stalked his lover. Sherlock was panting by the time he dropped to his knees on the straw sleeping mat. He wanted to top the Buck this time, but didn’t know how to ask for that; he’d only been thinking of having that thick cock inside of him again. John, however, seemed to be of the same mind and turned around before reaching him, backing his hips up and whimpering in apparent need.

Sherlock gasped at the sight of that pink pucker winking out from beneath his white tail. The surrounding blonde hair only made that bare spot look more naked and Sherlock eagerly parted his shapely rear and ran his tongue in circles around the already moist hole. John’s natural lubricant might be enough, but from the feel of him- as Sherlock fucked him with his tongue- he wasn’t as loose as he had been when they’d been in Rut together. Sherlock reached a hand forward and pressed it to John’s lips, and moaned appreciatively as the Buck sucked three of his fingers into his mouth and lathed them enthusiastically. John moaned and wriggled and Sherlock tried to keep focused on the task at hand, but he was so damn _hard_.

Sherlock slipped one finger in, but found a second could slide in almost immediately after so he followed it up quickly. He watched in awe as the Buck’s body stretched around his digits and John began to thrust back on them wantonly. Sherlock licked around that stretched hole and moaned at the spurt of clear, musky liquid that squeezed out in response. John was well and truly aroused. Sherlock added a third finger and stretched them a moment before his eagerness took over.

Sliding into John’s body left Sherlock’s mind blank with bliss. The tight grasp of his passage tugging him in deeper left him babbling and moaning. He only held still a moment before he was thrusting fast and hard into that strong, willing body. John moaned and thrust right back, encouraging Sherlock to move faster and harder. Before he quite knew what was happening, Sherlock’s hips were snapping against his Buck’s body and the sound of flesh slapping together filled the room. John’s far larger and heavily furred bollocks bumped into Sherlock’s with every thrust, leaving him gasping in excitement as the pressure built fast. John reached between his thighs and fisted his cock and Sherlock moaned as he saw the long arc of his arm.

_That huge cock was inside me earlier,_ Sherlock thought, and his body gave a greedy clench to remind him about how good it had felt.

Sherlock sped up, his breath catching in his throat, and cried out when John’s body suddenly clenched around his shaft. He held still, unable to move in that vice-like grip, and listened to John’s cries of pleasure. Once he could move again he resumed his punishing pace and listened joyfully to the Satyr babbling eagerly. John’s face hit the ground- and wasn’t _that_ erotic? – as he apparently lost the ability to hold himself up. He was moaning almost continually, both hands working his cock and balls as he pleasured himself while Sherlock thoroughly fucked him.

“Oh, gods, I’m coming!” Sherlock moaned, forgetting every ounce of Greek he’d learned.

And it was wrenching through him, leaving him breathless and gasping as he poured himself out inside of his beautiful blonde Buck. John cried out beneath him and Sherlock gave a few more thrusts before sagging backwards. John rolled over, hands still furiously working his shaft, but now his fingers slipped down to finger his arsehole. Sherlock hurried forward and wrapped his lips around the tip of John’s dick and sucked and twirled his tongue as he thrust several fingers into that loosened and clenching hole. John spilled himself into Sherlock’s mouth, and he moaned greedily as he swallowed the bitter-sweet substance down.

_He tastes like bitter herbs_ , Sherlock thought before leaning back and admiring the sight of his ravaged lover. 

John laid with thighs spread, his cock limp and satisfied against his lightly furred stomach. Sherlock’s spunk was dripping from his still spasming hole and Sherlock barely resisted the urge to lick it up. John’s arms were flung out on either side of his body, utterly relaxed, and his eyes were closed as he panted up at the ceiling.

**“You are beautiful** ,” John whispered, and Sherlock blushed at the compliment and leaned forward to press a kiss to his lover’s lips.

The flap to John’s wigwam was pushed open and two armed, uniformed men stepped in. Mycroft followed quickly behind and favored Sherlock with a disgusted look.

“Playtime is over, brother.”

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/53126.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 5

“I assure you, brother, I am _not_ playing,” Sherlock snarled.

John rolled over, looking at the men in front of him and glancing over his shoulder at Sherlock.

“ **Tell them I did not rape you. You consented,”** John urged, “ **They have no right to be here.** ”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft held up a hand and spoke in a condescending voice: “I understood him, Sherlock, probably better than you did. Did you, in fact, consent to this vulgar act?”

Sherlock raised his head proudly, “Of course I did. We’re _married_.”

Mycroft didn’t scoff as Sherlock has suspected, instead his eyes narrowed angrily.

“Tell me you’re joking,” Mycroft asked angrily.

“No, I’m not. We’re married. There’s the proof right there,” Sherlock nodded to the broom and woven bundle of flowers.

Mycroft walked to the shelf John had placed their wedding materials on and frowned at them. He inspected them, but did not touch, then favored Sherlock with another look of disgust.

“Your marriage is recognizable by the British government _only_ if you register it as well. You’ll need to do that in order to be legally married outside of the reservation.”

“Well, perhaps I won’t leave the reservation.”

“Ever? Please, Sherlock, we both know how easily bored you get. What about your new husband? Does he know what you did to keep yourself amused whilst you were apart?”

Sherlock ground his teeth and John glanced back and forth between them in confusion.

“ **What is wrong,** Sherlock? **Why is this man upsetting you? Do you want me to throw him out?”** John asked, touching his arm gently in concern.

**“Yes!”** Sherlock replied immediately, guessing at the parts he hadn’t understood, and John rose to his full – if unimpressive by even human standards– height and squared his muscular shoulders.

Mycroft’s eyes gazed down the man’s body and he smirked wickedly.

“ **Ah, I see,”** Mycroft snickered, “ **So _that’s_ what you like about him. I doubt your human lovers had such impressive genitals.”**

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face, but John only grinned cheerfully and cupped himself in agreement.

**“I keep him satisfied,”** He agreed amicably.

“ **For now. My brother has proven himself to be unreliable.”**

**“** Mycroft **does not know what he is talking about,** ” Sherlock insisted.

“ **Did a human hurt you? Rape you?”** John asked, worry in his eyes.

“ **N-no,”** Sherlock faltered. How to explain? And with a limited vocabulary?

**“Oh, please,** Sherlock, **allow me. Djawn, Sherlock decided to explore his sexuality after his encounter with you,”** Mycroft started with a wicked smirk.

Sherlock didn’t understand everything Mycroft was saying in Greek, but he got enough of it to know it was damning.

**“Do not listen to him. He does not know the truth**.” Sherlock insisted, standing and grasping John’s arm. He tugged on his lover, fixing him with a pleading look.

**“You’re upsetting my husband. Leave,”** John ordered, “ **You have no jurisdiction here.”**

**“He managed to fuck his way through every male human in his class before deciding to return to you here.”**

John took a step back, giving Sherlock a confused look.

“ **He lies?** ” The Faun’s voice sounded hopeful.

Sherlock struggled to explain, dove for his pants and the book and rifled through pages for him.

**“I’ll be happy to translate for you,** Sherlock,” Mycroft offered, his expression sardonic.

“ **No! I…** John… **Please,”** Sherlock looked up at the Faun’s hurt expression and tried the speech he’d prepared, the one he hadn’t gotten a chance to recite to him, **“I was lost without you. I did things I am ashamed of. I want to start my life over with you.** ”

“ **What shames you?** ” John asked, concern in his eyes.

“ **I let other Men touch my body. I thought they would make me happy. They did not. You make me happy.”**

Sherlock held his arms out to John, waiting and hoping… and ignoring Mycroft’s mocking laughter.

“ **Get out,”** John snapped, but just as Sherlock’s face fell his head snapped towards Mycroft, **“You speak my language but you do not speak my tongue. Get. Out. Or I will make you leave.”**

Mycroft frowned and leveled a look at Sherlock: “I’ll be watching for you, brother. Mummy sends her regards, do try to make it home for Christmas dinner.”

Sherlock scowled and Mycroft left the wigwam with his guards in tow. Sherlock sighed and sagged forward on his hands. He felt utterly drained and wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep. John knelt in front of him and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“ **I will not share you,”** He told him, his expression hard. Sherlock understood: he could not make that same mistake again.

“ **I want no one else,** ” Sherlock explained after looking through the book for the proper tenses. Every sentence he spoke with the Buck came easier and easier, but Greek was a complicated language.

“ **I will give you beautiful Kidds and you will be happy with me,** ” John stated firmly, his eyes sure.

Sherlock nodded, but already he was feeling claustrophobic. He couldn’t leave the reservation. He was trapped. His dreams of spending his life devoted to study and solving mysterious and exciting crimes was crumbling before his eyes. John reached out and tapped the center of Sherlock’s forehead, where he had just kissed him.

“ **To make you happy,”** John told him with a gentle smile, “ **You must tell me what you want.** ”

“ **To leave the reservation and study the whole world,** ” Sherlock replied after a moment of leafing through the book again.

“ **The world is very big. Will you have time for one small Satyr?”**

“ **Yes.”**

**“Then I will help you see the whole world.”**

John stood up, glancing around his wigwam appraisingly; apparently he was prepared to pack up and leave the reservation right then and there. Sherlock felt an ache in his chest and took several calming breaths as _emotions_ threatened to overwhelm him. How could this Creature be so completely understanding? How could he stand there and accept everything Sherlock was and had done and wanted to do? Sherlock had spent his childhood fighting his parents and Mycroft for every bit of freedom he craved and had never once thought he would meet someone who wanted to simply _exist_ with him; someone who was prepared to give up their life to be with Sherlock regardless of his flaws.

John knelt down again and pressed kisses to Sherlock’s face and neck.

“ **Don’t be sad, my husband. I will take care of you, you will take care of me, and together we will take care of our Kidds. They will be blessed to see the world with you.** ”

Sherlock choked on a laugh and threw his arms around the Satyr’s neck, hugging him tightly. John pressed kisses to Sherlock’s shoulder and rocked him gently until he became too tired to keep his eyes open. Sherlock felt John lower him onto the mat again and sighed in bliss as he was gently tucked in.

**“Tomorrow. The world can wait for you until tomorrow. Tonight you are just mine.”**

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft was shaking with fear. If that heart attack over the summer had only taken their bastard father to his more-than-timely death… but the old tyrant lived on. He would punish Mycroft horribly for not succeeding in routing Sherlock out- probably with a caning- but he hadn’t been able to face those pained pale-green eyes and resort to the violence that would have been necessary to remove his stubborn, love-struck brother from the reservation. Surely Sherlock deserved some kind of happiness, some kind of _fulfillment_ in life? Even if it was a silly adolescent crush likely to end in disaster, ‘better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all’ was all that kept floating through Mycroft’s mind. The enforcement that he ignores his libido in favor of advancing his mind had never felt so utterly _wrong_ as it did when John had stood up to him and accepted Sherlock despite his grievous mistakes. What was that like? To be accepted by someone, not only after _not_ proving yourself, but also after _failing_.

Mycroft himself would never experience love. He had been kept from dating by his parent’s stringent lifestyle, much as Sherlock had, and would be wed to Anthea Wuthering in spring; an arranged marriage, despite the modern times that surrounded them. She was intelligent enough, but decidedly as lesbian as he was gay. They would conceive in-vitro and Mycroft would die a withered, bitter old virgin.

Mycroft pulled into the police station and marched up to Detective Lestrade’s office. The attractive silver-haired man glanced up and raised an eyebrow, his face inviting enough to stir Mycroft’s neglected loins.

“Enjoying your promotion?” Mycroft purred, and immediately regretted the sensual tone in his voice. How had that crept in?

“I suppose I have you to thank for it?” Lestrade asked, his throaty voice making Mycroft throb all the more.

“I’m sure I only pointed out your esteemed… talents,” Mycroft breathed.

Lestrade leaned back in his desk, a smile playing across his lips, and he looked for the entire world like a man waiting for someone to drop down in his lap. Mycroft wanted to be the person to do such a wanton thing, but his life was already planned out for him.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked, and if he wasn’t offering sex he was offering favors of some kind. Mycroft counted on that.

“My dear brother has caused me more grief, I’m afraid. He so looked up to you during his awful ordeal, and you were so _thorough_ with those _ruffians_ who manhandled him. I hoped you might find it in your heart to advise him on a delicate matter.”

“What sort of matter?” Lestrade asked, his eyes openly admiring Mycroft’s body.

Mycroft was startled. No one took notice of him beyond his face. He made sure he _always_ kept their attention where it belonged – trying to guess what was going on behind his eyes where his enormous brain resided. This man was taking him apart piece by piece and it frightened him almost as much as his father did.

“He’s gotten himself married to the Buck who raped him,” Mycroft replied.

“He…” Lestrade’s eyebrows furrowed, his attention now firmly on Mycroft’s face, “Sorry?”

“He ran away from school and the hospital I had him put in when he was found sobbing in a shower stall and married… Djawn, I believe his name was.”

“What do you want me to do about it? Satyr don’t have divorce, at least not in the way you think of it.”

“I’m more hoping you can help him with a different aspect. Namely, protection.”

“Protection from whom?”

Mycroft lowered himself into a chair and prepared to betray his entire family for his brother’s ridiculous Romeo and Julius romance.

“Our father.”

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/53441.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 6

John held Sherlock close the entire night, drifting in and out of sleep as his mind toyed with him. He felt so relieved to be free of his burden of guilt, but reality was crashing down around him. This was no simple relationship between two Bucks meeting to relieve their Rut, nor was it a typical marriage. The man who had arrived and clearly said something to threaten his Man had proven as much. Something dark hid in Sherlock’s past, and John was determined to protect him from it. John forced himself to clear his mind and focus on sleep; he would be useless to Sherlock if he were too exhausted to protect him.

Morning brought a quick round of packing while Sherlock paced nervously and fiddled with his mobile phone. John had been shown one when he’d been going through the arrest process. He thought they were fascinating, but Sherlock seemed to be worried about his. John thought it might be broken because it wasn’t lighting up.

“ **If it is broken we can find you another,”** John suggested lamely.

**“Another is what I may very well need,”** Sherlock nodded, but John had the distinct impression he’d missed a part of the conversation.

John said farewell to his closer friends, explaining that he didn’t know when he’d be back, and then hurried to his mother’s side. Her health had been failing since his father’s death and he feared this would end her, but she had often told him she wanted nothing more than for him to be happy with a nice young Buck. John tugged Sherlock up the stairs to the second level of the communal longhouse and over to the partition that was his mother’s living quarters. He scratched on the leather cover and she called to enter.

Sherlock had a way of knowing when he was around someone important, John had noted, and there was no mistaking his sudden seriousness. Where he had been bristling with barely restrained anxiety and excitement before, now he was calm and subdued, his eyes focused on John’s mother.

“ **Mother, this is** Sherlock, **my husband. I saw you watching our wedding last night. I apologize for not coming to speak with you after.”**

**“I understand the ways of youth, my dearest son,** ” His mother smirked, shaking her head in amusement.

Naansee reached out to Sherlock with one hand and he stepped forward and pressed his lips to the back of it in some odd human gesture. John’s mother smiled warmly and clasped his hand in two of hers.

**“You will love my son? He has been so alone.** ”

“ **As have I,”** Sherlock informed her with a curt nod.

John smiled as his mother gave them both looks of approval.

“ **You are going somewhere, my dear?** ” Naansee asked.

“ **Sherlock wishes to see the world, or study it. I’m not clear on which.”**

“ **He mentioned being a scientist,”** Naansee nodded.

They spoke for a moment about irrelevant things, John sitting close to her on her bed and stroking her hair. He wanted to memorize her just like this in case she was gone by the time he returned. Inside he was weeping at the thought, but he would never let either of them see him cry. He was a warrior.

John kissed her goodbye eventually, his cheek brushing hers over and again as he breathed in her sweet scent – sage and blackberries – and then hurried downstairs. John asked the elders to leave his wigwam unoccupied for at least one season, just in case he and Sherlock needed to return. They agreed to five seasons, and gave a pointed glance towards John’s belly. The indication was clear – he should return and birth his children amongst his people. John made no promise.

Finally John took Sherlock’s arm in his and they left the village together. John was proud of himself for not looking back, but then he had much to look forward to. He had a lovely young Man on his arm with a clearly brilliant – if unpredictable – mind. John was excited about what the future held for him and happily followed his lover’s lead.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Lestrade’s mouth was drawn into a thin line by the time Mycroft finished explaining the type of danger his father was capable of. Mycroft though perhaps he had made a new enemy instead of an ally, but he simply couldn’t go into this without fully warning the enigmatic detective. Finally Lestrade stood and walked around the desk – hips swaying suggestively - to lean against that side of it, fold his arms, and stare down at Mycroft with as intense a look on his face as Mycroft had ever seen before.

“You’ve left quite a bit out, and I’m not entirely sure I want to know what.”

“I’ve left nothing out,” Mycroft scoffed, “I’ve told you more than anyone should ever know about our family.”

“You left out the part where he abuses you both in some way, probably your mother, too.”

Mycroft felt himself go utterly still, like an animal spotting a predator in the distance, and was humiliated when he saw Lestrade’s face soften.

“I wouldn’t hurt you, My,” He stated, and Mycroft blinked in surprise at the nickname. He’d never _had_ a nickname before. Father frowned on such things.

“I doubt you could if you tried,” Mycroft replied, lifting his chin proudly.

“Do you know much about Satyrs?”

“Only what is available online, which is woefully little.”

“There’s a reason no one can speak Satyrese who wasn’t born at least part Satyr, and it isn’t just because Human vocal cords can’t make those same sounds. See, it isn’t just a spoken language. Satyrese is a language of facial expressions, hand gestures, subtle touches, and tone; all done by instinct. Humans are at a supreme disadvantage because they literally _can’t_ communicate on that level with a Satyr; it isn’t as simple as learning sign language or customs. Greek was adopted for that reason, since it is also a language of nuances, but it doesn’t have the subtle linguistic abilities that Satyrese has.”

“Fascinating, I’m sure, but what exactly is your point?”

“When a Satyr doesn’t want to communicate, usually because they’re facing a Human who’s being belligerent, they won’t just stop talking. They’ll freeze up their face, sit stiff as a board, and keep their hands tucked in. They might keep speaking, but they’ve effectively stopped _communicating_. Another Satyr would read it better than a Human, but Human’s still pick up on it. You get the impression they’ve just shut you out. You and Sherlock would make excellent Satyr.”

“Because we shut you out?” Mycroft scoffed.

“Because you face everyone as though they’re a different species. You both spend all your time yelling words at the world, getting louder and louder when the message doesn’t get through, but you’re not actually _communicating_.”

“Is there a reason you feel the need to insult my intelligence?” Mycroft asked, rising to his feet in a huff.

“I’m not insulting you, Mycroft, I’m explaining you. You’re closed up to protect yourself, just like the Satyr we bring here to interrogate. Problem is, most times communicating helps solve problems rather than creating them. You know what Humans thought when they saw Satyr go all cold and blank like you do when you talk to someone?”

Mycroft remained silent, simply staring down at the man before him. When he didn’t answer Lestrade continued unprovoked.

“They thought they were dumb animals and enslaved them.”

Mycroft turned on his heel and had his hand on the door but Lestrade’s voice stopped him in place.

“I’m not the one you should be running from, My. Your father is. He’s got you doing his bidding left and right no matter whom it’s not good for. Your own brother hates you because you’re a little version of daddy. You two are so well trained, but your brother’s breaking the chains. You admire him for it, but you’re here planning on fobbing him off on me instead of helping him – and yourself – by doing the same.”

“Oh? You think I should go marry a nice strong Buck and run away to live on a reservation without plumbing or other modern conveniences?” Mycroft sneered at him, hand still on the door.

Lestrade laughed, “Oh, I think you could do with a good buggering, and a Buck sure as hell could give it to you, but I meant you should stop following in your father’s footsteps.”

Mycroft released the doorknob, facing the man down.

“It’s all I know. All I’ve ever known. He would not hesitate to disinherit me as he likely already has done to Sherlock. He’d find a new heir, even if it weren’t someone he’d sired. The man is cold and utterly unfeeling.”

“Need all that money, do you?”

“The money, the prestige, the power; I wouldn’t expect a _plebian_ to understand.”

“Oh, no?” Lestrade chuckled, “Well here’s what I think: the lovely promotion you got me requires I relocate- probably another part of your scheme?”

Mycroft nodded, perfectly willing to admit his part in a successful venture.

“Well,” Lestrade continued, “I’ll take your little runaway and his Romeo with me to London and you see if you can’t get daddy to extend the apron strings to include you there as well.”

“To what effect?”

“So I can take you out for dinner.”

Mycroft smirked, “This is where the plebian part comes in, I’m afraid. You see not only would you buying me dinner be laughable from a financial aspect, it’s also quite impossible from a social and palatable angle. Socially I can’t be seen with someone like you. Palatably… well, I doubt you could enjoy the finer tastes of faux gras or escargot.”

“Goose liver and snales? Nah, probably not, and I suppose you’re above eating fish and chips?”

“Quite.”

“Your loss. I was hoping to be polite and buy you dinner before offering you that buggering you so dearly need, but if you’re too posh to dine with me perhaps you’ll still be man enough to admit you’ve got needs that haven’t been met in a while.”

Mycroft froze again, then purposely unlocked his joints and stared down his nose at the detective.

“Are you _propositioning_ me?”

“Are you trying to act like you don’t want it?”

There wasn’t a glare powerful enough to hide the embarrassment and sheer _want_ that Mycroft felt. He turned to leave again only to find the man had quietly stepped forward and placed his hand against the door. He wasn’t pushing on it. Mycroft could escape if he truly wanted to. He didn’t. Especially not with Lestrade leaning in, pressing his nose to Mycroft’s neck, and breathing in his scent as though it were ambrosia. Mycroft could smell the detective as well, a smoky sort of scent reminiscent of cedar, but not nearly as well as he suddenly found he wanted to.

“Are you really going to open that door? Because I promise you I won’t make this offer again if you reject it now, and that _does_ sort of defeat the purpose of you moving to London.”

_Sherlock. You’re here for Sherlock. Not this… incredibly intense man._

“Are you hinging your assistance with Sherlock on my acceptance of your sexual advances?”

“Not at all, but I bet you’d love to use that excuse, wouldn’t you? Sorry, handsome, you’re going to have to actually accept my advances without any ulterior motives to give you an excuse to take a cerebral holiday and get your brains fucked out.”

Mycroft shivered, and Lestrade pressed a soft kiss just below his ear. It was his undoing and he spun around and pressed himself hungrily against the shorter man. Lestrade growled sexily and for a few moments they snogged and ground their hips together like adolescents before Lestrade started walking them back towards his desk. His hips hit the desk and Mycroft groaned as his brain finally processed that _this was going to happen_ now that they had a surface on which to accomplish it.

_I’m not going to die a virgin_ …

Lestrade turned them, swiping his hands across the desk to knock it’s contents to the ground before grasping Mycroft’s thighs and hauling him onto it with surprising strength.

“My goodness, we are strong, aren’t we?” Mycroft panted, as the man leaned back to begin undoing the red head’s dress shirt’s buttons.

“Runs in the family,” Lestrade grinned, “I should probably tell you now in case you want to run for it, that I get my strength from my daddy.”

“I fail to follow your train of thought,” Mycroft responded, wondering if that had to do with the thigh between his legs that he was currently humping like a dog in heat.

“He was a Satyr,” Lestrade replied and then leaned in for another hungry kiss.

Since Mycroft’s mouth was hanging open, Lestrade dipped his tongue in for a taste and Mycroft spent a frantic few seconds worrying if his breath was foul, but then recalled he’d brushed his teeth before leaving the hotel. Then his brain caught up with what Lestrade had said and he wondered if he _should_ run. He pulled back from the kiss and Lestrade sighed in obvious annoyance.

“Go ahead, you won’t be the first,” He growled and took away that lovely thigh Mycroft had been enjoying.

Mycroft sat on Lestrade’s desk, panting, erect, with his shirt wide open, and wondered where the warmth had all gone before he blinked and realized Lestrade had walked around the desk. He could no longer see him and was hesitant to turn around.

“Forgive me I was only… I thought…”

“You thought I was Human, yeah, it’s fine. Most do. My horns are only about the size of grapes so the hair covers them. Hairy legs are under pants and I’ve got human feet. That’s why I said something. Other Satyrs notice, but Humans don’t catch on until we get to the ‘why Gregory, what hairy legs you have’ part.”

Lestrade dropped himself down into his desk chair and Mycroft stood up, fumbling with his shirt buttons, but not really attempting to do them up.

“What about the ‘my Gregory, what a large penis you have’ part?” Mycroft asked, shocked by his own boldness.

Lestrade chuckled, “I get far less complaints about that, actually. The hypocrites.”

“Even from virgins?”

Lestrade’s chair creaking was the only sign Mycroft had that he’d been heard.

“Frightened you, did I?” He finally asked softly, his tone gentle again.

“I do not frighten, detective Lestrade, but I do plan accordingly when an element of danger is involved, and I believe being torn in two by a Buck’s phallus takes a bit more preparation than the couple of fingers you might have afforded me had I stayed silent on the matter.”

Lestrade stood and walked back around the desk again. He undid his trousers, reached inside his pants, and pulled out a partially erect cock surrounded by a liberal helping of curling grey hair.

“Not so scary, eh?” Lestrade asked.

“It is still mostly flaccid. This is not the state at which it concerns me.”

Lestrade smirked a bit and stroked a hand along his cock. Mycroft watched in mute amazement as it quickly firmed, it’s length and width increasing alarmingly. The second Mycroft went from mystified to worried Lestrade released his throbbing member, which was so heavy by then that it dropped to pointing straight ahead rather than standing upright as Mycroft’s did, and spoke to him gently.

“No reason this has to go that far. Why don’t you let me just give you a bit of pleasure, eh?”

“I… I…” Mycroft was floundering. On one hand he was still achingly hard. On the other he was terrified. On yet a third he was curious. People had sex with Bucks all the time, there was a good chance that some of them were virgin males. Perhaps he was being silly.

“Shh, it’s fine,” Lestrade whispered, and pressed a gentle kiss to Mycroft’s lips, “You don’t even have to reciprocate. Just let me do this for you.”

Mycroft leaned into the kiss, longing giving him enough courage to wrap one arm around the Buck’s neck and wrap the other hand around his huge cock. Lestrade groaned into his mouth and Mycroft’s confidence soared. If he could drag those sounds from this man, then surely he could manage a bit more. Their kissing began to heat up again and Mycroft felt fingers at his groin where Lestrade was removing his trousers.

The feel of another person’s hand on his body was so utterly foreign and yet so brilliantly wonderful, that he cried out and bucked his hips up the second those fingers wrapped around him. It almost ended right then as he felt himself pull taut as a bowstring, but Lestrade noted his intense reaction and gripped him firmly with one hand while gently tugging his testicles down with the other. Mycroft whimpered at the denial but opened his eyes and nodded his thanks nonetheless. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to face the man again if he couldn’t last past a _caress_.

Lestrade helped Mycroft stand and ditch his trousers and pants before running a hand over his shoulders and sliding the shirt and jacket off in one go. Mycroft whimpered, to his embarrassment, then drew up his courage and reached for the Satyr’s cock again. Lestrade was simply holding Mycroft’s throbbing cock, but Mycroft felt emboldened and began to stroke the Satyr’s throbbing member, pulling the foreskin up over the head they way he preferred on the rare occasions he allowed himself to masturbate.

“Mmmm, tha’s good,” Lestrade moaned against his neck as he kissed down to Mycroft’s shoulder.

“You said something about pleasure?” Mycroft asked, his voice ragged with desire.

Lestrade chuckled, “What would you like? This? Or my mouth?”

“Oh, gods!” Mycroft cried out and very nearly came again at the thought of fucking Lestrade’s face, “M-mouth!”

Lestrade dropped to the floor and Mycroft caught his first glimpse of a grey and white tail peaking out of the back of the detective’s loosened trousers.

“Wait, wait,” Mycroft panted, and Lestrade glanced up in concern, “Your clothes. I want to see you.”

Lestarde beamed and stood again, undoing the first two buttons of his dress shirt, loosening the cuffs, and then stripping the whole thing off. His shoes and socks he toed off and then stepped out of the pants in nearly one fluid motion. Mycroft was left gazing at the man in amazement. He didn’t have the bent-legged stance of a Satyr, instead he stood straight and tall. His legs were covered with a thick coating of curly grey hair that lessened on his way down his legs until it was only a thin coating across his ankles and the tops of his feet. His thighs were thick and muscular beneath the chaos of soft curls – Mycroft couldn’t resist reaching out and running a few fingers through it- and his chest and abdomen were well defined. Mycroft suddenly felt self-conscious of his slightly flabby aristocratic figure.

Not to mention the fact his cock was a good three inches shorter and quite a bit thinner than the monstrosity in front of him. Mycroft blushed and crossed his hands in front of his groin in shame, but Lestrade caught his hands and pulled them away.

“Don’t. I want to see you. You’re beautiful. Gods, look at you! So pale and perfect.”

“I’m fat and freckled.”

“You’re _plump_ , and only in the right places, and freckles are fucking sexy as hell.”

To demonstrate his point Lestrade dropped to his knees and pressed his face between Lestrade’s thighs, apparently breathing in the smell of his groin, before lifting his face and pressing a kiss to each of Mycroft’s love handles. The feel of his nose nuzzling his bollocks nearly brought Mycroft over the edge again, but he managed to suppress his desires himself this time. His sensitive hips being kissed made him jump and groan softly.

Lestrade wrapped a finger and a thumb around Mycroft’s cock and gently ran his tongue up his shaft from bollocks to tip. Mycroft gasped and panted, holding himself off as well as he could, but he knew this wouldn’t take long. Of course, he also didn’t know Lestrade’s tricks. As the Faun swallowed Mycroft down, bobbing his head and turning his neck to add a twist to each slide in and out of that hot cavern, Mycroft threw his head back and surrendered to what would be a humiliatingly short- but utterly rewarding- blowjob. Sure enough his balls clenched, the heat in his belly coiled, and Mycroft stifled a cry of pleasure by biting down on his hand.

Lestrade immediately tightened his fingers around Mycroft’s shaft and held his ejaculation off. Mycroft had to press both hands across his mouth to stop himself from screaming in frustration and excitement as the torturous fellatio continued. Stars were popping behind his tightly closed eyes as his muscles clenched and his hips jerked in mimicry of an orgasm that never came. Twice more his body went through this until Mycroft unclasped his hands and gasped out.

“I will _scream_ if you do not let me come!”

Lestrade chuckled around his cock – an entirely beautiful experience – released his grip and sucked hard. Mycroft bit into his hand to stop his cries as wave after wave of hot seed shot into the Satyr’s mouth. Lestrade popped off with a satisfied smirk and stood up, his own cock hard and pointing at Mycroft accusingly.

“Want a taste?”

“Certainly not!” Mycroft hissed, pulling back when the man leaned in to kiss him.

Lestrade laughed again, then reached down and stroked his hand over his own engorged prick.

“Mind if I get off?”

“Not at all,” Mycroft replied, staring down at the man greedily. His own hand hesitantly reached out and he soon found himself stroking the Satyr with the Buck’s hand wrapped around his own.

“Gods that’s good,” Lestrade sighed, head thrown back in pleasure.

Mycroft’s thighs were trembling from the pleasure Lestrade had wrung from him, but his hands were steady. He stroked the man firmly, adding a twist to his wrist at the end in mimicry of what the Faun had done with his mouth while pleasuring Mycroft. He watched in amazement as the Buck’s cock swelled at the tip and then he was grunting and pumping his hips forward, head thrown back as he eagerly fucked Mycroft’s and his own hand and painted Mycroft’s belly with his come.

“Oh,” Mycroft breathed, thinking that the one experience he’d had with gay porn had done _nothing_ to prepare him for the sight, smell, and feel of another man climaxing on his body.

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” Lestrade sighed, bringing his head forward and meeting Mycroft’s eyes with a smile, “Mmmm, that was fucking great.”

Mycroft blushed his own desire deciding to take that moment to creep up again. After all, he so rarely indulged in any kind of self-pleasure. The sight, smell, feel, and _gaze_ of this Faun was driving him wild.

“When do you get off?” Mycroft asked, deciding he was going to be brave for a change.

“Just did,” Lestrade chuckled.

“Don’t be crude. When do you get off _work_?”

“Two hours,” Lestrade replied after glancing at the clock on the wall.

“Can we go back to yours?”

“Absolutely. In fact, fuck this I’m punching out now.”

Lestrade threw his clothes back on, tucking his still hard cock into his pants and donning a jacket so his erection wouldn’t be obvious, and waited patiently for Mycroft to redress. Once they both were presentable again they left the building while quietly discussing the weather as though nothing had happened. Of course, their activities weren’t obvious to anyone else, but Mycroft felt as though a bull’s-eye had been painted on his forehead.

It was exhilarating.

[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/53700.html)


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 7

I realize there is some time-line confusion; the confusion is really mine. Let’s just say it’s 2013, but erebody is younger. There. Blanket solution.  


Sherlock had bought John a Greek to English book and borrowed a disk from the library for him to listen to as well. The young Faun had trouble with the headphones on his Satyr ears, but was clearly fascinated nonetheless. He sat on the tube beside Sherlock and listened to every word while flipping through the book. He occasionally stopped the player and asked Sherlock to repeat a word multiple times. Sherlock was irritated by it, but did his best to contain himself. It wasn’t John’s fault his mind was ordinary and dull like everyone else’s. The Buck had other aspects he quite enjoyed, so Sherlock was willing to make allowances.

Sherlock contacted Trevor once they neared the station and the young man met him there. He’d graduated the year before and had contacted Sherlock via e-mail when he’d had a problem, but the year since they’d last seen each other shouldn’t have had as much of a difference on Trevor as it had.

“Victor,” Sherlock greeted, giving the young man’s hand a firm shake, “I hardly recognized you; you’re thin as a rail and you’ve grown so pale.”

“You’re in time for a tragedy and a fresh mystery, Sherlock,” Trevor replied, his grip weak on Sherlock’s hand, “My father suffered a stroke after receiving an odd letter. As to myself, the tragedy and a year of suffering are my ailment.”

“Suffering how?” Sherlock asked in surprise.

Trevor hesitated and glanced aside at John, “Who’s your… friend?”

“This is John, he’s my husband.”

Victor jerked his hand out of Sherlock’s so quickly it jolted him forward, and favored them both with a look of disgust. John pulled the headphones out of his ears and frowned at the man. He extended his hand politely and planted a gentle smile on his face.

“Hello my name is John,” John stated with a thick Greek accent, “How do you do? What is your name?”

“You’re joking?” Trevor asked, glancing askance at the Buck.

“No, quite serious. We met under rather unpleasant circumstances, but we’ve made the best of things. He’s quite nice.”

“Tame, you mean. I hear they’re fantastic in bed.”

Sherlock frowned, “Exhilarating, actually, but he’s _nice_ not _tame._ He’s no more an Animal than you or I are.”

“Do you share him?” Trevor asked, glancing down at John’s open jacket and the firmly muscled abdomen it revealed.

Sherlock’s reply was to reach out and close John’s jacket, fussing at it and straightening it in a feigned attempt to make John look presentable. A glance at his eyes let Sherlock know the Buck wasn’t fooled. He might not understand the conversation, but he was quite content to read the facial expressions. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and his tan lips twitched as he tried to hold back a smile. When Sherlock straightened John stepped forward and pressed his head to his shoulder briefly before picking up both their bags like the gentleman Sherlock knew him to be.

“Now then, I believe you were going to take me to see your father?”

Trevor frowned, “We’ve already had one theft, I’m not sure how my parents would feel having an Animal in the house.”

“He is _not_ an Animal. He is a Satyr. They are as Human as you and I are, we can reproduce with them for pity’s sake! That isn’t possible even with our closest mammalian relatives within the animal kingdom. Scientifically speaking he is not an animal based on that alone. His brain is also as advanced as… well, _yours_ , as are his mores and other cultural aspects. We had a Satyr wedding; animals don’t have weddings or anything ceremonial for that matter.”

“You can _breed_ with him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated, smiling proudly, “He might be pregnant now. It’s too early to tell yet.”

Trevor looked at him with new respect, apparently for the sheer fact he’d topped a Satyr.

“Well… I suppose I can tell mother to just stay away from him. You’ll have your own room, of course, so it’s not as if he’ll be sleeping in the den or something.”

“Smashing,” Sherlock stated with a bit of sarcasm, “I’ll want to see this distressing letter your father was sent first and foremost. Then I want a detailed list of everything stolen – nothing is insignificant.”

Sherlock offered his arm to John and he caught it up. Trevor gave them one last curious look and then nodded and led them to his limousine. Before John could sit down Trevor insisted on putting a handkerchief down for sanitation sake. Since John was wearing a loincloth that only covered his front Sherlock could see his point. He went to explain it to John, but the man sat down daintily on the square of cloth without being told. Sherlock doubted he’d followed the conversation, but he was already realizing that John was no stranger to social prejudice; he had probably been made to sit on odds and ends, or even the floor, before.

They arrived at Trevor’s posh mansion and Sherlock immediately led John along beside him, ignoring the staff that tried to waylay John into heading into the kitchens with the rest of the help. They were led to a study where Sherlock was presented with a very curious letter indeed.

_A mile run would be for your benefit. Your very fortunate life has been the talk of good people. Been a while. Found your hat?_

“None of us can make heads or tails of it,” Trevor explained, “and father collapsed immediately after. That was a day after I got your text that you were still coming. I’d heard from an old mate at Uni you were… ill.”

“Mmm, I was being kept from John. It made me unwell.”

“You… really?” Trevor looked shocked, well he might since Sherlock had mocked relationships in the past.

“Yes. John has proven to me how one might be completed rather than held back by a relationship. He is a distraction at times, so that part of my analysis was correct, but he can also prove rather inspiring. It’s some sort of code, but what kind?”

“I’ve never heard relationships referred to as that before!” Trevor laughed.

“No, not that. The letter. It’s clearly a code, the question is; what is the trick to cracking it?”

Sherlock felt John lean over his shoulder and study the letter in front of him. He’d probably picked up a few written words by now, as he’d rarely shut the book Sherlock had given him. Still, he was bound to be unable to read the actual letter. Sherlock translated it for him into Greek, more to involve him than to actually get his input.

“ **What does it mean, Sher?”** John asked, brushing a stray curl from his eyes.

**“We don’t know, that’s the problem,** ” Sherlock replied, grateful John’s English lessons had greatly improved his own Greek ones as well, “ **A man has grown ill because of this.** ”

**“It does sound threatening. A run would be for his benefit? Is it telling him to run away?”**

Sherlock did a double take at the letter. John was right but also wrong; it wasn’t a threat, it was a _warning_!

_A mile run would be for your benefit. Your very fortunate life has been the talk of good people. Been a while. Found your hat?_

“A run be your your… no… a mile run your very fortunate been a while found your hat… no… Does your father know anyone by the name of Miles?”

“Not that I know of,” Trevor responded, looking baffled.

“So perhaps… run for your life the good been found… Ah! You just read every third word: how utterly simple. _Run for your life the goods have been found!_ Your father was involved in something nefarious!”

The second the words left his mouth Sherlock knew they wouldn’t be appreciated. Trevor’s face clouded over and his lips pressed tightly together. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and held the letter out without hesitation.

“I can’t make the results to your liking, only interpret them for your miniscule mind. You mentioned the things stolen were of monetary value, was anything of _sentimental_ value taken?”

“No,” Trevor stated tightly.

“Have any of your neighbors been robbed.

“Yes.”

“Your father and some accomplice, who has warned him that their ring of thefts has been found out, have been robbing everyone. In order to appear innocent he robbed his own home, which is why there was no evidence to be found from another person. He probably didn’t think to do something simple like walk out to the garden in borrowed, oversized shoes and break in a window with a rock. He made it more mystery than it was worth.”

Sherlock didn’t try to hide his disgust and disappointment over how uncomplicated the case had proven to be. Instead he simply held out a hand.

“I believe we discussed the fee as £300?”

At that moment, just as Trevor was slowly turning red with rage and Sherlock was wondering why, the door was opened without knocking and a servant fluttered in with a distressed look on her face.

“Sir! Your father!”

Trevor pushed Sherlock firmly out of the way and hurried after the servant who led the way upstairs. They were too late. Mr. Trevor had succumbed to his ailment and expired while they’d been discussing his criminal activities downstairs. Mrs. Trevor was weeping bitterly by his side and young Trevor was rubbing her back consolingly.

“Now we’ll never know what happened,” He sighed.

“I just…” Sherlock started, but stopped when Trevor glared at him with a clear threat of violence written on his face.

“Sherlock, I know you’re a mate and all,” Trevor said, his voice implying otherwise, “but we’ve just had an awful tragedy here. Perhaps you could come and stay another week?”

“I was told I would be paid for…”

“Morgana, see Sherlock and his… _companion_ … out the door.”

“Not without my fee,” Sherlock snapped, standing his ground.

Beside him Sherlock felt John tense and saw him shift their bags down to his hand. He recognized the gesture, the Buck was preparing to defend him and the bags had just become weapons rather than burdens. It sent a jolt south, but he had no time to lust after the Faun at the moment.

“This way, Mr. Holmes,” Morgana insisted, stepping forward.

John leaned slightly and Sherlock realized with no small amount of alarm that John had no way to determine who the threat was. He was reading Sherlock and Victor Trevor’s behavior, but the servant who innocently approached would be just as plowed over. Sherlock caught and squeezed the wrist of the hand that still rested on his arm. John stilled and the bags were instantly shifted up to his shoulder again.

“Good day to you, Trevor,” Sherlock stated, “May you live a more _honest_ life than your father had.”

Trevor was on his feet instantly: “You bastard!”

“Of course,” Sherlock stated over his shoulder as he breezed out, “You’re already off to a poor start.”

Trevor was detained by his mother so he didn’t come after them the way he obviously wanted to. Sherlock was part relieved and part frustrated. They _needed_ that money. He’d been counting on it, as well as the beds they were now unable to sleep in. They had paid to come all the way out here with nearly the last of Sherlock’s available cash. He supposed they could stop at an ATM and find out if his cards still worked, but he doubted they would. Mycroft would have had more than enough time to tell father about his betrayal by now. He’d be well and truly cut off.

“ **No use ignoring possible options. I’m going to get this servant to fetch the car around for us again,** ” Sherlock explained to John, “ **I’m afraid I’ve insulted the master of the house, so we’re going to have to find somewhere else to sleep tonight.”**

John nodded his understanding and Sherlock persuaded the help into bringing the car back out and driving them into town. He had it stop by a bank and then hopped out to try the machine while John waited inside – _not_ on a handkerchief. Sherlock slipped his card in and punched in his code, fully expecting the machine to eat his card. Out popped far over the maximum allowance of funds and a message scrolled across the screen.

_Consider this an early birthday present, brother. Do try not to waste it on frivolous things. I doubt I’ll be able to pull it off for you again. Go to Lestrade at your earliest convenience._

Sherlock stuffed the abundance of notes into his pockets and fisted the rest. He stuffed them all into his bag when they got back in the limo and then snapped at the driver to take them to the train station. Sherlock didn’t like mindlessly doing what Mycroft said, but he did think Lestrade was to be trusted so he’d take this as an opportunity. He’d rather liked the man before.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft now knew why they called such flats ‘shoeboxes’. The place was so tiny he pitied any underprivileged person who happened to be claustrophobic. Still, the flat was clean (unlived in) and tidy (few possessions) and the man… _Faun_ … on his arm was going to give him what he’d always wanted.

Mycroft wondered if he could convince the Creature into letting him top him. He was rather enticed by the idea himself, and it avoided his discomfort at having his first time bottoming be with a man so very large. Certainly Mycroft craved the control that would give him. However, one look at the powerhouse of a body that was slowly being revealed to him in the bedroom gave Mycroft entirely new ideas. His father always kept him on such a tight leash, even as he taught him how to manipulate the system – and people – around him. He had been submitting to the man in nearly every way his entire life, and this was his first act of rebellion. Why not make it an act of betrayal as well by submitting his body to this Buck as well? True, his father had no interest in Mycroft’s body – it was all transport to him – but he might as well have been fucking him all these years based on the way he used him and spat him out on a regular basis.

To give himself to someone rather than having to fight to keep what was his… that was the ultimate rush. Mycroft was panting for it by the time the Buck pushed their naked bodies down onto the bed. They landed with one leg in between each pair of their own and Mycroft thrusted up against the Buck.

“How do you want me, gorgeous?” Lestrade whispered, nuzzling Mycroft’s neck and making him shiver.

_He’s asking me? I could have_ him _if I wanted, but I don’t. I want him inside me. How do I say that without appearing weak?_

“Mmm, I can read you like a book,” Lestrade purred, and reached down with a saliva-moistened finger to gently stroke Mycroft’s entrance.

Mycroft gasped and his legs fell apart of their own accord. Lestrade slipped fully between them and then kissed his way down Mycroft’s body, hovering over his nipples to pay extra attention to them. Mycroft had never touched himself there and his body jumped and jolted as though electrocuted. He gasped and tugged on Lestrade’s hair shamelessly; his fingers brushed the tiny nubbin horns the Satyr had mentioned having and the Buck moaned.

Lestrade dipped lower and Mycroft raised his eyes to glance down at his nipples in shocked betrayal and found them both hard and swollen. He knew from a logical standpoint that it was possible for a man’s nipples to become erect, but he’d never experienced it outside of a chill and they were far larger than that now. He opened his mouth to ask how Lestrade had achieved such an act only to find the man had engulfed his cock in that delicious mouth of his again.

Mycroft moaned appreciatively and then backtracked that thought and pushed his head to get him to stop. He’d disgrace himself if he kept that up.

“Human’s do not have the sexual stamina Satyr do,” Mycroft scolded.

“Apologies,” Lestrade smirked, “You’re just so tasty I thought I’d have a bit more, but you’re right. It will be much more fun to lick it off your belly once I’ve wrung an orgasm out of you while buried inside this beautiful body of yours.”

Mycroft wasn’t used to praise, especially not _sexual_ praise, and he turned his face away as he blushed brilliantly.

“Hush,” Lestrade whispered, pressing a kiss to his crimson cheek, “You are lovely and you will be wonderful.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a moment, using fetching the lube as an excuse, and Mycroft took the time to compose himself. He wasn’t backing out of this. He wanted this Buck and he wanted to feel _alive_ for a change. Lestrade settled back down between Mycroft’s spread thighs and smiled at him gently.

“Few ways to go about this,” He soothed while stroking the inside of Mycroft’s thigh and making him shiver, “You want to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I want to see you, too. You’re too handsome to waste looking at the back of your pretty red head.”

Mycroft blushed again and watched as Lestrade’s eyes darkened with lust, “You’re so fucking hot, all spread out on my bed with your cheeks the color of cherries. Ready to loose yours?”

“Yes,” Mycroft stated, lifting his chin just enough to show his pride again.

“My lord,” Lestrade nodded with a teasing smile, but it wasn’t insulting.

Mycroft lay limp, the most intelligent way to handle being penetrated anally, and allowed Lestrade to lift one thigh to give him better access to his body. A pillow was stuffed beneath his hips and then Lestrade propped Mycroft’s leg over his shoulder and dripped lube onto his fingertips. Mycroft watched, mesmerized, as he smeared it around before reaching down and probing his entrance again.

“Oh!” Mycroft gasped, feeling the heat pool in his groin.

“Mmmm, so lovely. I wish I could film this, but I wouldn’t disgrace you like that. You’re too precious to capture on film like a common slut.”

Mycroft turned his head away again, but this time he was smiling a bit. He appreciated the man making him feel special instead of like a one-off. He might have opened his mouth to flatter him back, but instead he clenched his teeth as a finger slipped inside of him. He’d expected pain, but it only felt a bit odd.

“You’re doing so good,” Lestrade whispered as he slid the entire finger home, “Not even clenching up on me. So brilliant.”

Lestrade pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s cockhead, making it jump and bounce against his chin, then pumped his finger gently before adding a second. He paused, and then pumped them as well before scissoring them gently. Mycroft gasped a bit at the burn but was soon rewarded with an entirely new sensation as stars danced in front of his eyes and a jolt of pleasure traveled from his backside to his bollocks and his cock jolted again.

“Oh, my _gods_!” Mycroft gasped and Lestrade chuckled lightly.

“Allow me to introduce you to your prostate.”

“It’s a pleasure, I’m sure,” Mycroft stammered, his brain apparently shut down and allowing his mouth to get away with all manor of nonsense.

Lestrade laughed outright and then prodded it again: “Want more?”

“Yes!”

Lestrade pumped his fingers a bit more than slipped a third in. Mycroft groaned at the first real discomfort but that spot inside him was soon being stroked and he was back to mewling in pleasure. He didn’t even notice the fourth finger until he felt Lestrade’s thumb prod his prostate from the _outside_ as well.

“Oh, gods, stop! I’ll come!” Mycroft cried out, fighting with the growing pressure.

“Fuck you’re hot,” Lestrade panted, but slid his fingers out nonetheless.

Mycroft lay there, panting and feeling unbearably empty while wondering why he’d suddenly been abandoned. He glanced down to see a panting Lestrade slicking up his cock and felt his channel clench in anticipation. He couldn’t tell if he was feeling fear or desire at this point and he didn’t care. He’d gone far past the point of no return.

Lestrade lined himself up with Mycroft’s gaping pucker and smiled heatedly as he pressed his cockhead against the aristocrat’s entrance. The Man whimpered and grasped his own thighs to spread them further open for him. He _needed_ this. Lestrade pressed in slowly, pausing whenever Mycroft shut his eyes in pain or overwhelmed pleasure. It felt like hours before that long cock was finally buried in him completely. Mycroft had almost called a halt at one point; not from pain so much as from sheer distress at how far inside his body was being pierced. His mind was supplying images that he certainly didn’t need at a time like this, but that all stopped when Lestrade’s bollocks pressed to his and the Buck reached down to pump Mycroft’s cock. He hadn’t lost even a bit of hardness during the slow glide in; his desire had been so much more intense than his fear.

“You’re like a vice, _fuck_ you’re so tight!” Lestrade gasped, stroking Mycroft more firmly.

Mycroft opened his mouth to tell him to leave off lest he end it all too soon, but then the Faun started to slide back out and all thought left Mycroft’s head. Lestrade slid out until only the bulbous head remained on the inner side of Mycroft’s ring of muscles. Mycroft was soon whimpering at the loss of most of the Buck’s cock, but he wasn’t empty for long as the man slowly slid back in. His cock grazed Mycroft’s prostate on the way in, but only enough to tease him mercilessly.

Mycroft gripped the Satyr’s arse tightly in his hands, startling a bit as his thumb grazed the tail. He held him in place a moment until they were both writhing with need then tugged at him to pull out again. Lestrade moved faster this time, too heated by the restraint to stop himself. He was steadily moaning and panting and the sounds were driving Mycroft mad. Mycroft himself was gasping and tossing his head back and forth as that thick cock stroked his internal pleasure center until he was crying out with each move in or out.

“Oh! Oh! Please! Ohhhh!”

“Mmmm, please what, My? Tell me what you want. Should I stroke your cock till you come or make you spill yourself off of my cock alone?”

“YES!!”

“Yes to which? What do you want?” Lestrade panted, “Tell me how to please you, my Lord.”

“Oh _gods!”_ Mycroft screamed and came hard between them, his cock untouched and bouncing, spraying his come across both their chests.

“Fuck! Yes! _Mycoft!_ Oh _, yes_ , you gorgeous man!” Lestrade cried out and Mycroft felt himself being filled with the Satyr’s hot seed.

“Oh!” Mycroft moaned, overwhelmed by the intimacy. He squeezed his eyes shut and ignored the tears that spilled out as his throat closed up.

Lestrade’s head fell down onto Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft lay still, panting and over stimulated, as his body and mind crashed around him like waves in a storm. Lestrade was pounding into him still, his moans reaching a nearly frantic level that quickly spilled over into cries of what sounded like desperation. Mycroft wrapped his arms and legs around the Buck and clung to him, flexing his legs around his hips to urge him to find his release once more.

“OhfuckohfuckohfuckohZuesohfuck!” Lestrade cried out, then screamed his pleasure as he came hard inside of Mycroft once more.

Mycroft lay there, shocked and gaping at the ceiling. He’d never felt so _alive_ so _present_ in his entire life. He was limp from pleasure and a heavy dose of testosterone, ached in an enjoyable way in muscles he’d never used before, and was utterly emotionally drained. Lestrade lay across him, panting and gently stroking his sides, before slowly slipping free and pressing a heated kiss to Mycroft’s lips.

Mycroft was surprised by the kiss. He’d expected the Satyr to roll over once the act was done and dismiss him; task accomplished and satisfaction achieved. Instead the man pressed gentle kisses to his cheeks and neck before nuzzling behind his ear and whispering gently to him how utterly gorgeous he was.

“Like a painting, you are, all bright colors and perfect angles. Mmmm, I could spend hours worshipping you, My.”

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed, not entirely sure if he was agreeing with the sentiment or the act itself.

Lestrade chuckled again. Two tears slipped free of Mycroft’s eyes once more and landed uncomfortably in his ears. He rubbed at them and Lestrade lifted his head to see what had made him shudder and shift. When he saw the tears he looked alarmed.

“Did I hurt you, angel?”

“Oh, gods, I’m no angel. If you only knew,” Mycroft breathed, fresh tears welling up.

“Hush, you’re a saint.”

“I’m not. Oh, _gods_ , I’m not.”

“Shhhh,” Lestrade pressed kisses over Mycroft’s tear tracks, stroked his face, and ran his fingers through his auburn hair, “Let me take care of you. Come with me, gorgeous.”

Lestrade tugged Mycroft up, ignoring his flustered exclamation when Mycroft felt fluids gush down his thighs, and led him by both hands to the bathroom. He gently held an arm around Mycroft’s hip while he tested the water’s temperature and then guided him into the shower as though he were made of glass and might shatter if he slipped and fell. Perhaps he would. Perhaps now that he’d let himself feel the height of pleasure his body would break apart from the sheer magnitude of _sensations_ he had been overwhelmed with. Mycroft leaned into Lestrade’s shoulder and let himself be washed as he wept at what he knew he could never have.

Soon he would leave and he doubted he would be able to slip away to be with this Buck again. He wouldn’t even have Sherlock to complain to anymore. He was entirely alone. 

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/53840.html)

  



	8. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 8

John slept on the train, despite the riotous movement, with his head in Sherlock’s lap. He wasn’t sure what had gone wrong at that beautiful giant house, but he was glad Sherlock had decided they were leaving before it had come to blows. He wasn’t sure the outside world was okay with him killing to protect his husband. He _was_ sure that humans had issues with taking things. He’d been warned of that before the police took him off the reservation. Apparently they didn’t _share_ their things! Sherlock hadn’t shown him such stricture, but of course Sherlock was unique. Sherlock was a gem among Men, and clearly needed to be shared with them so they could see what they were doing wrong. For this reason, among others, John approved of them leaving the reservation. His only selfish reason was a longing to see the world as well.

John woke and stretched to find his mate happily smiling down at him. He was careful not to prod him with his horns as he showed off his body, stretching and running his hand over his morning wood. Someone cleared his throat and John blushed hotly while Sherlock chuckled. Apparently someone had joined them in their compartment while he’d been asleep. John sat up and made sure his loincloth covered him properly. It wasn’t meant to hide an erection, though, and he was getting more and more tense as it went on.

“Sherlock, **can we go someplace private?** ”

Sherlock smirked and then let out a long litany of English to the man across from him. John didn’t catch much, but apparently the man was accused of doing something inappropriate with a female who was not his wife. He gave Sherlock a horrified look and fled the compartment.

**“People are so very silly,”** Sherlock commented while undoing his trousers.

John wasn’t about to ask questions. He dropped to his knees and started tugging on his cock while waiting for Sherlock to lower his fly. Once Sherlock’s member was free John swallowed it down greedily, listening happily to the hum of approval from his husband. Sherlock pushed his head back up, though, and John looked at him in confusion until Sherlock gestured for him to lie down. John did so and was surprised to see Sherlock straddle his _head_. He caught on quickly enough though, when Sherlock took his cock into his mouth and began to suckle on it. Their height difference was a struggle, but John managed it mostly thanks to the fact his cock was so very long. John whimpered and moaned as he swallowed Sherlock down while trying very hard not to thrust up into his husband’s mouth.

Sherlock sucked and bobbed with enthusiasm and John was brought off twice in quick succession. When Sherlock spilled down his throat John swallowed it down hungrily. He loved the taste and feel of his husband’s cock in his mouth, but he loved swallowing his seed down even more. To actually _taste_ the proof of the pleasure he’d given him was phenomenal. Sherlock sighed and climbed off of John, who was trying very hard not to go back to sleep. Finally they resituated their garments and John was about to snuggle in for another nap when that loud voice boomed through the compartment again and Sherlock tugged John to his feet.

“ **We need to get off here,** ” Sherlock explained as John grabbed the bags and hurried after him.

XXX

They had reached the police station. John was nervous despite Sherlock’s explanation, and didn’t relax until he was in the room with another Satyr. John liked Lestrade. The Faun was calm and cheerful, always ready with a joke and a smile. He stepped forward and hugged him comfortably once the door was shut and prying Human eyes were closed off. Sherlock seemed surprised, but John couldn’t imagine why.

**“Sherlock is my husband now,”** John informed Lestrade proudly.

**“Get the** fuck **out!”** Lestrade crowed, hugging him again, **“Congratulations! May your heart be filled with love, your stores with grain, and your home with Kidds!”**

**“Thank you! May you find the same!”**

**“Oh, I think I have. Well… a bit of work first I suppose.** ”

“ **If it’s worth having it’s worth working for,”** John stated, his mother’s favorite saying.

Lestrade nodded and considered those words as if they were gospel.

“ **If I can keep him then I think I’ll be quite happy, but only time will tell. What can I do for you two?”**

**“We’re homeless,”** Sherlock stated, stepping into the conversation as easily as he had John’s life, “ **We need a place to stay and a job to finance it.”**

**“The second I can help with, but can’t you go back to the reservation?”**

**“I’d rather not,** ” Sherlock stated before John could answer, “ **I have things that need being done. Someday we’ll go back, but not now.”**

**“All right then. Well, I’ll call a few friends.”**

Lestrade sat down at his desk and made those calls while he let Sherlock look through a few case files. He told Sherlock that he could be a clerk and that he’d mention it to the higher ups whenever he found a clue from the files he put away. Sherlock was displeased with it, John could tell, but there were precious little options if he wouldn’t go back to the reservation. He was positive his reticence to go back had to do with this urge he had to be a scientist, or perhaps his fear he couldn’t provide for John on the reservation because of it. John had seen him reading up on something called ‘chemistry’ on the train.

John reached out to help himself to an apple sitting on Lestrade’s desk, having not had breakfast that morning, but Sherlock cut him off and shook his head firmly.

**“He can have it,”** Lestrade chuckled, “ **I’ve another if you’re hungry**.”

**“No thanks** ,” Sherlock stated, glancing back and forth between John and Lestrade, **“Full or part?”**

**“The whole thing, of course. What would I want with half an apple?”**

**“No, no. Are you full Satyr or part?”**

**“Part,”** Lestrade replied, smiling a bit, “ **No one around here really knows. Just the bloke who does the physicals and he’s not properly affiliated.”**

**“Well, your secret is safe with me,”** Sherlock replied.

**“And several of yours are safe with me,”** Lestrade replied.

Sherlock blinked in confusion, then took the slip of paper Lestrade had been carefully writing on while leaning over it on his desk. Sherlock unfolded it while keeping it as covered as possible. The handwriting was atrocious due to the circumstances, but Sherlock had no difficulty interpreting it.

_Mycroft is with me. He is safe._ The note read in Greek. John got a glance at it and then watched Sherlock nod and crumple it into a tiny ball, shifting it into his pocket.

“ **I’m to head to London soon,”** Lestrade explained, **“They’re just training me for my new position here. Once I move, you lads are to come with me. I can’t find you accommodations here, but in London I know a sweet old lady who has a flatshare. I can talk her into letting you stay on the cheeps for a bit. _Don’t_ upset her. She’s very kind. Her husband, however, is an arsehole. Stay away from him if you don’t want a beating.” **

Sherlock gave Lestrade a tight-lipped nod and stood, leaving Lestrade with the files and a mess of information that John had no idea how he’d come across from a few gory pictures and a box of ‘evidence’. John was sent down to the basement to take a job cleaning while Sherlock headed to the file room with a new batch of files. John was glad the man who he met in the basement had a few words of Greek to him, because John was still very much a beginner.

John spent the morning and afternoon cleaning, his stomach rumbling angrily. He hoped Sherlock had worked a few things out, because he sorely needed a decent nights sleep and a good hot meal. When his husband found him at the end of his shift and led him out the door John was relieved to see a car waiting for them. John’s legs ached from all the odd work he’d been doing, and his eyes were irritated from the chemicals. If those horrid things he had been using to clean the building with were part of the ‘chemistry’ Sherlock did, then John was sorely tempted to coax him back to the reservation.

**“I’ve found us a cheep bedsit,** ” Sherlock explained, “ **It’s in Little Satyr. We can also talk to someone there about getting our marriage recognized by the Human government. You aren’t superstitious are you?”**

**“I don’t think so,”** John shrugged.

“ **Good, because there was a triple murder there last year. I do so hope there are still blood stains.”**

John laughed at his husband’s odd comments and followed him ‘home’, as he’d follow him anywhere, willingly and eagerly.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

For your viewing pleasure here is a younger Mycroft and a younger Lestrade. Enjoy!  
<http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lngvoi9Bx11qz9nt5o1_500.jpg>  
<http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/drinkingcocoa/16377160/58574/58574_original.jpg>

_My,_

_You were glorious last night. Sorry I couldn’t stay until you woke up. I wanted to make you breakfast in bed, but they called me in early. Make yourself at home, I think there’s something that might fit you in my closet, but I make no promises on style. There are hard-boiled eggs, yogurt, and juice in the fridge. Call for takeaway if you want. My card’s on the table. I hope to see you when I get back, but I know you’re a busy guy. You have my number._

_Greg_

Five days later Mycroft still hadn’t set foot out of Gregory’s tiny flat. His father, he concluded, had lost track of him when he’d left the reservation via a different exit than the one he’d entered; there was no surveillance of any kind within the reservation so he had driven around for a while before locating Sherlock and left out the nearest exit. Gregory had not mentioned Mycroft leaving, or even adding to his finances. He came home every day and beamed when Mycroft was still there, making him feel welcome and (dare he think it?) loved.

Mycroft was alarmed at how quickly he became domesticated. He had woken up in Gregory’s bed to find a sweet note sitting on the pillow beside his own. He’d located hideous, but incredibly comfortable, clothing in the closet, eaten his paltry breakfast, and found a book to read while he contemplated how he was going to explain his delay to his father. He became so absorbed in the book – a forensic psychology book – that he didn’t notice the time slip by. When Gregory returned he gave him that overjoyed look and Mycroft knew he’d be staying another night. The frown he gave the mess in the kitchen, however, was less rewarding and Mycroft found himself tidying up the next day. Before he knew it he had a routine down. Wake, eat, tidy, read, eat, watch telly, stretch, exercise on Gregory’s treadmill, shower, pop dinner in the microwave, dine with Gregory, fuck each other to unconsciousness, begin again.

Gregory was showing Mycroft that sex was more than simple physical gratification. Yes, the release of endorphins and hormones that went along with orgasm were addictive, but there was so much more to it. The second night Mycroft stayed with Gregory he was treated to a full body- if inexperienced- massage. It was, of course, far more intimate than any massage Mycroft had ever had at the hands of his family’s private fitness trainer. He’d then been sucked to completion while Gregory stroked his own member and moaned hungrily as he swallowed Mycroft down. Mycroft had been afraid at first of being unable to satisfy the Faun due to his inexperience or stamina, but he swore up and down he was content.

Mycroft had noticed that the Buck became more frantic the more orgasms he had, his third always being the most powerful and nearly rendering him unconscious. It wasn’t until his third night with Gregory that Mycroft found out he was capable of a fourth.

Myroft was panting with desire, his eyes clenching tightly as Gregory pressed inside him fast and hard. Mycroft was on his hands and knees for the first time, having refused previously because he found the position degrading. Now he had no idea what he’d been protesting about. Gregory had hold of his hips and was pounding into him relentlessly and had already climaxed once before Mycroft had hit his first.

“Oh, Zeus, _Mycroft_!! Oh, gods, you’re so fucking tight!!”

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, trying his name out loud for the first time.

The response was instantaneous. Gregory buried himself as deeply as he could, clenching Mycroft’s hips until he feared they’d leave marks, and stiffened as he moaned out his pleasure. Mycroft gasped, never quite over the sheer _intensity_ of feeling Gregory fill his body with his seed. He loved the way his cock pulsed and twitched inside him as he came and would have been brought over had he been touching himself at the time.

“Oh, gods, say that again!” Gregory gasped when he was finally able to do more than moan and come.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, soft and shy while ducking his head despite all they’d done together.

“My!” Gregory reached around and wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s prick to stroke it firmly.

“G-Gregory!” Mycroft shouted, climaxing almost immediately.

“Ohhhhh!” Gregory moaned, and it took a moment for Mycroft to realize he’d just come _again!_

He became nearly frenzied after that, pressing Mycroft’s shoulders down into the bed and fucking him with an intense urgency. He was babbling almost constantly and the bed was slamming hard against the wall. To Mycroft’s horror the neighbors banged back, but Gregory was too far gone to care.

“Oh, gods, your beautiful! Brilliant! Glorious! Oh, fuck, My! _My!_ Ohhhh! Ahhhhh!!”

“Gregory, the neighbors,” Mycroft gasped, wincing as his prostate was inadvertently stroked. Gregory usually took care not to overstimulate him once he’d come, but he was simply too far-gone to control himself now. To Mycroft’s shock he found himself hardening again, “Oh! Ohhh! More! Faster!”

It was exhilarating. Gregory played his body like a cello, holding him intimately and wringing sweet music from his willing body. Gregory stretched out across him, running his tongue over Mycroft’s neck and then nipping his shoulder gently. When he began to suck a mark into the apex of his neck and shoulder, moaning all the while as he chased his fourth orgasm and – unbeknownst to him in his sex idled state – Mycroft’s second, Mycroft began to shout out and buck back in unbridled excitement. He wanted _more_ and he wanted it fast! He was so close, burning on the edge of a precipice that threatened to swallow him down.

Gregory pressed down on Mycroft again and he soon found himself frantically humping the soft bedding on the mattress below him as Gregory buried himself deep and rocked Mycroft’s entire body with his eager thrusts. He’d moved his legs to the outside of Mycroft’s thighs and was squeezing them together. It made Mycroft’s passage tighter and they both gasped and cried out as they came together. Gregory screamed Mycroft’s name and Mycroft sobbed in pleasure as fireworks went off behind his eyes.

They both collapsed, and it wasn’t until Mycroft tried to budge Gregory up so he could breath easier that he realized the man had actually passed out on top of him.

“Oh dear,” Mycroft sighed, and resigned himself to waiting for the Satyr to wake up before he could move. It was less of a hardship than he’d realized and he was soon dozing a bit.

“Mph!” Gregory grunted, and then slowly drew himself up onto his hands and knees, sliding out of Mycroft in the process

“You okay?” He slurred.

“I was not the one rendered unconscious,” Mycroft worried.

“You… I… Fucking hell that was good. Mind-blowing.”

“You’re welcome, now get me some ice cream. I think I’ve earned it.”

“I don’t think I can _walk_ ,” Gregory stammered, then pulled himself out of bed and staggered into the next room.

[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/54229.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 9

“Gods I’m sick of all the fucking strays!” Lestrade snarled as he took off his coat.

Mycroft had been headed his way with a beer in one hand and the mail in the other, but stopped in his tracks at that statement.

“Donovan’s going to be coming with us to London,” Lestrade explained, “Your charming brother pointed out that she was being abused by her boyfriend in front of the entire fucking bullpen. She spent two hours in my office crying.”

“Is she harmed?” Mycroft asked, not sure what else to say.

“A bunch of bruises, including a couple on her ribs. He’s been careful to keep it under her clothes, but Sherlock noticed she was in pain and jumped to his so called ‘obvious’ conclusions. She can’t stay working there now, and frankly she shouldn’t be in the same city with her ex-boyfriend.”

“I see,” Mycroft replied, still feeling hurt about the ‘stray’ comment.

“Oh!” Lestrade declared, suddenly focusing enough to realize what Mycroft was holding, he stepped forward and accepted both with a quick kiss to Mycroft’s lips, “What would I do without you to come home to?”

Mycroft smiled like a love struck teen, which he supposed he was in all but age. Lestrade breezed past him and flopped down on the sofa, looking through the mail while his sipped his beer.

“Then I suppose I do not fall under your list of strays?” Mycroft prodded, tensing himself for a fight.

“Gods, no. Why would you?”

“I am living here free of rent, free of responsibilities, and with nowhere else to go. I rely on you for my supper and give you nothing in return.”

“I wouldn’t call it nothing, My,” Lestrade replied, his voice soft and loving.

Mycroft stepped forward when Lestrade motioned him to and sank down into the sofa. He pressed close to Lestrade, turning so he could press his face to the Satyr’s chest.

“You are very important to me, Mycroft Holmes. I only hope I can keep you hidden.”

“I doubt it. How will we manage the move?”

Lestrade snickered, “I was planning on taking a page out of your brother’s books and disguising you. I wonder how shocked your father will be to know I have a wife who follows the strictest of Muslim practices?”

“You intend to put me in a burqa and smuggle me to London?”

“I could write it off as keeping you secret for religious and political reasons. We’ll still be secretive about it, but let a glimpse be seen on the CCTV network. He’ll have the answer to a few questions and never know it’s the wrong one.”

“Did Sherlock suggest this?”

“What, I can’t have a few good ideas?”

Mycroft laughed and pressed a kiss to Gregory’s cheek.

“Sadly,” Gregory sighed, “She’s got a personal grudge against your brother now.”

“Donovan?”

“Yeah. She scowls at him all the time.”

“I’m fairly certain she could do worse.”

Gregory laughed and kissed his cheek again, “What’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti. Again.”

“Guess I need to get you some cookbooks,” Gregory laughed, but there was no disappointment in his eyes.

“I look forward to reading them,” Mycroft replied with all honesty.

He was doing more than just housework now; he’d started a financial portfolio for Gregory. They’d be rich within ten years at the rate he was going. If not, then it was no real loss: such was the market. Mycroft didn’t need the frills to be happy; he knew what happiness was now.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock looked over their new quarters in 221B Baker Street and smiled contentedly. They were more than adequate. They could even add another room upstairs onto the rent if John happened to get pregnant. Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On one hand he looked forward to a family some day, planning how he would avoid the mistakes of his parents. On the other hand, he was young and unready for fatherhood, even if John was practically pleading with his belly to start swelling up with child.

Sherlock heard John give a shout at that moment and bolted to the door to see him sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.

“Are you hurt?”

“No, I do not think so,” John groaned as he picked himself up.

“Your English is improving,” Sherlock teased as he helped the Satyr up and frowned at the stairs.

The carpeting was slick in some areas. John would likely fall again if they didn’t find some way to stop him from skidding. Mrs. Hudson appeared at that moment and gave them a worried look.

“Did John just fall?”

“Yes,” Sherlock stated, surprised she’d guessed that from so little information. Usually that was his gig, “How did you know?”

“I heard a bang and here you both are, and you don’t look like you’re enjoying yourselves,” Mrs. Hudson fretted, “Come along dear, I’ve something to fix that right up and I’ll tell you where to get more, too.”

John followed after Mrs. Hudson, though Sherlock was sure he’d only understood 50% of the conversation. Mrs. Hudson fished around in a drawer and came up with some rubber grips for his hooves.

“Ladies wear them on their shoes,” The Doe explained. Sherlock was ever so grateful she wore a dress; unlike many of the Satyr they knew around here that went practically naked. He appreciated that on John, but not on everyone.

John sat in a chair, pealed off the backing, placed them on his hooves and stood on them experimentally. He wobbled for his first few steps, muttering that he couldn’t feel the ground, but quickly got the hang of it. A moment later he was bounding up the stairs without an ounce of concern. Sherlock followed him cheerfully and found his lover once more examining the violin Sherlock had gotten in the mail. He had been unsurprised that his father had known where he was going and when he would arrive. The boxes containing most of his things were still a pleasant surprise. He’d had to heave half of it, but that was hardly an issue now that he had his Stradivarius.

John held the instrument out for Sherlock and he happily took it up to play a few notes for him. He was just launching into an actual song, enjoying the soporific effect it had on the Buck, when Lestrade burst through the door.

“Damn it, Lestrade, what if we’d been having sex,” Sherlock scolded.

“Sex?” John asked hopefully.

“Later, Lestrade has bad news,” Sherlock sighed in frustration.

“Is Mycroft here?”

Sherlock jolted to his feet and closed both the blinds and the door behind Lestrade.

“If you actually want to keep him a secret, I’d advise you not to go blurting that about. You’re lucky I’ve already swept the apartment for bugs.”

“Geezus, his father really is the British Government, isn’t he?” Lestrade asked in distress.

“And until you absconded with him, Mycroft was well on his way to inheriting the post. I assume something has gone wrong?”

“He’s missing,” Lestrade groaned, dropping onto the sofa, “There’s no sign of him in our new flat. No sign of a struggle, no sign of forced entry, and no missing possessions. Everything I’ve given him since we shacked up is still there. Hell, his book is laying neatly face down on the bedside table as though he plans on returning.”

“His burqa is _not_ missing,” Sherlock stated, already knowing the answer.

“Still there, so he didn’t just decide he wanted fresh air. Your father has him, doesn’t he?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Will you come take a look?”

“No, there’s no point. We already know what happened. Father wasn’t as fond of me; I doubt he’ll let Mycroft go as easily. I advise you to go back to your flat and hope he returns with his tale between his legs and less money. Otherwise he’ll have chosen his inheritance over you.”

“How do I stop him from doing that?” Lestrade asked in horror.

“You don’t. You get over it. Preferably before it affects our livelihoods.”

Lestrade looked devastated, so Sherlock had probably said the wrong thing. John hadn’t followed most of the conversation, but he knew enough of what was said to show concern for Lestrade. He walked over and sat down next to Lestrade and pulled him into a hug. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as the two nuzzled cheeks and held each other tightly. Only when Lestrade’s shoulders started heaving as he wept did Sherlock decide he was out of his depth and had best leave John to it. He stood and went to the kitchen to check on his experiment.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft refused to be cowed by his father’s men, tinted windowed cars, and cryptic messages. He simply stepped out of the car, straightened the tie of the suit he’d been made to change into, and stepped into the Diogenes Club without a an ounce of nerves. He was an aristocrat to the core, no matter if he’d been slumming it lately. He had no reason not to behave as though welcome was not only expected but also _demanded_.

Siger Holmes sat behind a large mahogany desk and glowered at him like an English judge from bygone films. Mycroft smirked and leaned on his umbrella. He would never draw the sword within on his father- the man would crush him- but it was a constant comfort to have it with him.

“So. The prodigal son returns,” Siger sneered.

“That term is better left for use with Sherlock. I did not return, I was _fetched_.”

“Insolent whelp!”

“I shall be returning to him, father. Nothing you can say will change my mind. I don’t want or need your money or this expensive suit you had me stuffed into. Have you tried track pants recently? They’re really _quite_ comfortable. I’m already missing them terribly.”

Instead of replying Siger Holmes slid a file across the desk at his son. Mycroft knew just by the look on his face that he was beaten, but he opened it and glanced at it anyway.

“What do you want?” Mycroft asked, his voice as cold as the grave.

“Your obedience,” Siger sneered.

“Done.”

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/54285.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 10

TWO MONTHS LATER

John both loved and hated doing the shopping.

He loved doing the shopping because Sherlock hated it, and anything he could do to make Sherlock happy was a plus. He loved it because there was so much to choose from and he was nearly obsessive about all the different types of food there were. He loved it because he got to leave the house solo and ‘provide’ for Sherlock.

John hated doing the shopping because it wasn’t a _challenge_ and he could easily see himself becoming fat from the ease of it. He hated it because the machines were troublesome. He hated it because, as bad as the machines were, the people were _worse._

If John got in line with groceries and were fully dressed, well then the manager would come out, pull him aside, and pat him down to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything. It was worse if he decided not to buy anything, as he had one day after a disagreement with Sherlock in which he’d just wandered in for something to do. That day they’d called the police and only mentioning Lestrade’s name got him out of a strip search. Yet, if he _didn’t_ wear a full outfit to the store then they wouldn’t let him in the produce isle; they’d send a clerk to get what he wanted so he couldn’t ‘filthy up’ the unpackaged food, and the clerk invariably got him the most bruised or spoilt of the lot. He also got nasty looks from other patrons and once he was spit on.

So John left for the store cheerful and came back surly, but he never complained to Sherlock because he didn’t want the Man to feel as though he needed to do something about it. John was used to being the Buck, not the Doe, and he didn’t want Sherlock fighting his battles for him. So he put up with the abuse, stood his ground when he could, and backed off when he had to.

One day he saw a Doe being put through the ringer and decided to tag along with her for the rest of the shopping trip. They never spoke the whole time, just mutually agreed to watch each other’s backs. On the way out the door she turned right instead of left so he walked to her home with her. She nodded gratefully when she got to her door and gave him a grapefruit for his troubles.

He went on his way, bags in hand, and got home fairly late. Sherlock hadn’t noticed and John was a bit crushed about that. He’d discerned that Sherlock tended to get tied up in things and ignore him for long periods of time. He respected that Sherlock was some sort of genius and was making advancements for his world, but John felt he ought to at least be _noticed_.

“I said could you hand me a pen?” Sherlock requested when John walked in the door.

“Didn’t notice I’d been gone, then,” John sighed.

“Mmm.”

“My English is getting so good people have stopped complaining about my accent.”

“We have to go out tomorrow night. Bring that gun I gave you.”

“Alright. Why?”

Sherlock smirked, “That’s telling. You recall that fellow who Lestrade sent my way because they wouldn’t take him seriously?”

“The Red Headed League fellow?”

“That’s the one. It’s related to him.”

“But I thought he worked at a pawn shop?”

Sherlock smirked and John sighed, knowing he’d get no more from his enigmatic lover. At least he was in a good mood today.

“I met a Doe today,” John tried for jealousy.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied to the ceiling.

“Didn’t catch her name.”

“I’m not hungry, but feel free to get takeaway. We’ll have a paycheck from this one.”

“What’s that term you use in bed when you’re feeling naughty? Starts with an ‘f”?”

“Fuck.”

“That’s the one. She fucks well.”

“Wait, what?” Sherlock asked, sitting up with a furious look on his face.

“Ah, so you _were_ listening,” John grinned.

“That isn’t funny, John. I’m very busy.”

“Doing _nothing,_ besides sulking and ignoring me!”

“I don’t see you working,” Sherlock sneered, “Why don’t you go apply for another job scrubbing floors instead of subjecting your opinions on the world.”

John stood up and stormed out of the flat.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock called after him.

“Out!”

One good thing about Satyr is that even outside of the Reservation they kept most of their traditions. John got to the Doe’s house and simply walked in. He found himself in a small sitting room so he did just that and waited to be noticed. She wandered in a moment later, jumped when she saw him, and then smiled warmly. A few minutes later and they were sitting to tea.

“Something went wrong?” She asked finally.

“My husband and I had a row.”

“Worse than the one you had with the chip & pin machine?”

“Yes,” John smirked. He hadn’t even gotten to tell him about _that_.

“You can kip here if you like.”

“Thanks,” John replied gratefully.

The next morning John headed back with a promise to visit Sarah again. She was married to a Buck who had made his way well in the world and was going to help him get a job. They had three gorgeous Kidds, two boys and a girl. John loved Kidds and his abdomen clenched whenever he saw them. He wanted that with Sherlock, but the Man had avoided topping him overly much and Satyr apparently had trouble getting pregnant by Humans, something about their ‘eggs’ being thicker than Human ‘eggs’. John was rather alarmed that Humans laid eggs, but he supposed he oughtn’t to judge. Satyr probably seemed very strange to Humans, too.

John slipped into the flat to find Mycroft Holmes of all people sitting in _John_ ’s chair! John blinked at him in shock, then scowled and headed over to the window to glare out at the streets. He wondered if Sherlock had called him when John had vanished, but the next comment settled that.

“How was that Doe’s couch, John?” Sherlock asked.

“Ah, Lilo, Sherlock. It was the Lilo,” Mycroft chided.

“Ah, yes, so it was,” Sherlock amended.

“How did you…? Never mind,” John huffed, “What are _you_ doing here.”

“I have some work for your husband now that he’s advertising.”

“No,” Sherlock replied quietly.

“It’s a matter of national security!” Mycroft scolded.

“I’m already on a case, I can’t possibly take on another.”

“The Red Headed League? Obvious.”

“Transparent, but that’s beside the point.”

“I will pay you, you know.”

“I’ll think on it.”

Mycroft sighed and rose to his feet, smoothing his shirt out.

“I had hoped marriage would settle you more, Sherlock. Disappointing.”

“I don’t live for you or father’s approval,” Sherlock replied accusingly.

Mycroft sneered and turned to leave, but John followed him out, stopping him on the landing.

“Go back to him,” John pleaded, “He’s crushed without you.”

“I have no time for _pets_ ,” Mycroft snarled, jerking his arm free.

“But you’re _Satyr!_ ” John called back, trying to make him see, “You’re Satyr, too, and you don’t even know it! You need him!”

Mycroft gave him an alarmed look, and then his eyes grew cold and John drew back in alarm.

“I need nothing and no one. I suggest you learn to operate with the same parameters since Sherlock is unlikely to change.”

With those chilling words Mycroft Holmes crooked his umbrella under his arm and left 221B.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft had been trying to maintain his calm façade, but it was made difficult when John arrived so he ended his discussion with Sherlock and left. That statement, though… what had John _meant?_ Surely he couldn’t mean Mycroft was _literally_ a Satyr. They were savages on that Reservation; it must have meant something spiritual. Still… if the Holmes family turned out to have ‘tainted’ blood then Mycroft would have something to hold over his father’s head!

Mycroft went into Sherlock’s old rooms in search of a syringe & a lab kit, but found it already cleaned out. How bothersome. He’d have to find a different way to secretly analyze his blood. Of course, Sherlock was the first option. The man had made friends with a silly little girl at St. Barts who had a silly little crush on him; she was allowing him to use her laboratory for procedures too complex to be done in his kitchen.

Mycroft was just starting to plot out how he would trick Sherlock into analyzing his blood when another thought occurred to him. If he was even some small part Satyr then there was a good chance – a _very_ good chance considering what a cock slut he was– that he might have fallen pregnant when he’d been with Gregory. Mycroft was in front of his mirror in an instant, studying himself from the side and going over the last few months with a fine toothcomb.

He’d been sick for days after he’d accepted his father’s blackmail, but then that might have been the fact he was giving up the first shred of happiness he’d ever had. He hadn’t slept well since, but again, he was severely depressed. He’d been eating obscene amounts of food and had gained at least a stone…

_What would Gregory think? I was at my most trim with him. I kept exercising to look good for him. If he saw me now…_

Mycroft sat down at the foot of the bed and tried to reconcile himself to the fact that he would _not_ be seeing Gregory again, or if he did it would be in a much different capacity. The man would hate him, surely. He’d lived off of him and basically used him for sex (in Gregory’s eyes) for a month and then simply vanished. Possibly while carrying his child.

Well, there was no help for it. A pregnancy test was far easier than a DNA analysis. Mycroft would pick one up and piss on a stick just like any other Buck who’d gotten ridden bareback.

That thought sent a shudder through Mycroft’s system. Just the thought of Gregory’s slick, long, thick, bare cock, sliding slowly into his body…

Mycroft trampled that thought down until his erection wilted once more. He hadn’t touched himself once since leaving Gregory and he had no intention of ever doing so again. He had given his love up for good; he didn’t _deserve_ pleasure any more. Especially now he knew that Gregory was ‘crushed’, as John had so quaintly put it.

Instead, Mycroft took a car out to a pharmacy and sent the driver in for a pregnancy test, bribing him quite well to keep it secret. His father would likely be told, but he wouldn’t leak it to the press and his father would probably think he’d been with a woman. Hell, he’d probably complement him on it. Mycroft had heard some fairly inventive terms for homosexual since he’d returned; and even more degrading terms for Satyr. His father, it seemed, was even further behind in the times than he’d realized. No one made a fuss about _homosexuality_ anymore! Of course, most people weren’t from old blood and required to pass said blue liquid on to the next generation; assuming their blood was as pure as he originally thought.

Mycroft accepted the brown paper bag from the driver and headed upstairs to his private bathroom. The next three minutes were tense to the point of becoming ill again, but that was nothing compared to the feelings he suffered when he read the results of the test.

Negative.

There would be no movement in his belly.

No cries in the night.

No chance of Gregory’s wide, laughing eyes staring up at him from a soft round face.

Never had he felt so utterly alone than he did in that moment.

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/54644.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 11

Sherlock and John were standing in the dark in the basement of a bank with Lestrade and Donovan. John was as confused as Lestrade and Donovan, but only about half as annoyed. He was probably twice as horny, though. It had been far too long and he was ready to bend Sherlock over the nearest crate and fuck him senseless. While they sat waiting John slid his hand onto Sherlock’s arse and gave it a squeeze before stroking it firmly. Sherlock surprised him by leaning into the touch instead of shooing in away as he had been the last week or so. John went from half-mast to fully erect in an instant. He shifted about, tugging on the front of his trousers to get more comfortable. He was grateful for the jumper he wore, as it would cover the otherwise embarrassing bulge. Humans were very funny about sex, and especially about male erections.

Just then they heard an odd thump and a series of scrapes. John stilled and Sherlock pushed his hand away and shushed the room at large. They all waited with baited breath as the silence stretched on. When the thumps and scratches picked up again it was amplified to the point John was surprised no one in the bank proper had heard it, but then he recalled they were here after hours. In the dim light John saw a sudden utter blackness appear in the middle of the room and realized with a start that the floor had just sunk in!

_A hole! They dug into the bank! Where’s the pawn shop… of course!_

Three men levered themselves out of the hole and into the room and that was when he, Lestrade, and Donovan made their moves, darting forward to capture the men before they could draw a weapon. They were mostly successful, but one of them still had a shovel and managed to clobber John over the head with it. His ears rang and fireworks went of behind his eyes, but he instinctively kicked out and the man hit the opposite wall with a loud thud. Judging by the cracking sounds that had sounded in the air he wouldn’t be getting up without assistance, if at all.

Sherlock had turned on a torch, meanwhile, and it showed Donovan and Lestrade cuffing the other two. John sank to the floor with a groan and felt the swelling lump on his head. It was just behind his horn, but a careful inspection of said appendage showed it unharmed.

“John, stop playing in the dirt and come see what they were trying to steal!” Sherlock crowed, but John was feeling too sick to answer.

Sherlock pulled a cloth tarp off of one of the boxes to reveal some writing on the side. John’s head was spinning too much to read it, possibly even if it had been in Greek or Satyrese.

_How do you say ‘concussion’ in English?_ John wondered. _Does Sherlock know it in Greek?_

“ _John!_ You aren’t _looking_ ,” Sherlock whined.

John opened his mouth to respond but nearly threw up, so he shut it instead.

“What’s the matter with you?” Sherlock asked, his voice turning from frustrated to concerned.

“ **Concussion** ,” John tried in Greek, hoping Sherlock understood.

“Let me see,” Sherlock hurried over, looking at John’s head in the light of the torch, “Lestrade, John needs to go to hospital.”

“Shit. It’ll have to be St. Barts. They’re the only ones who properly treat Satyrs.”

“What? Why? St. Mary’s is closer,” Sherlock argued, “I’ll just tell them off if…”

“Sherlock, his _life_ could be at stake! Haven’t you experienced enough bloody hate in your life to know that? There are doctors out there who aren’t opposed to letting an ailment degenerate in the hopes the Goat in their care will die from it!”

John might have enjoyed the shocked look on Sherlock’s face had he not been throwing up at the time.

“It’s that bad?” Sherlock asked, “I mean, I know people make jokes about him…”

“Jokes are the _least_ of his worries.”

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital was nice enough, John decided. They had a few Satyr staff and that was comforting, at least. John was given some medicine and made to stay the night for observation. He wasn’t allowed to sleep, which was torture because even after he’d swallowed the pills his head still ached miserably.

“Agaat has a better cure,” John groaned.

“Do you want me to send for her?” Sherlock asked, tucking John under the blankets again, as he did every time John shifted a bit.

“She’s very far away, and I doubt she’d leave the reservation.”

Sherlock nodded, “Maybe I could fetch it?”

“It involves a chant, if I recall.”

Sherlock scoffed, “Chants don’t cure headaches… but I know something that does.”

John glanced up at the wicked smile on his face and found himself starting to smile.

“What? What cures headaches?”

In answer Sherlock pulled his blankets down and tugged his hospital gown up. John’s red pants, which Sherlock had picked out three pair of, were gently eased off his hips. John was already firming up. It had simply been _too_ long for him!

He was already panting before Sherlock’s lips even wrapped around his cock, and when he stroked his balls John clapped a hand over his mouth and came so hard that his entire body locked up and then went boneless. John whimpered as Sherlock popped off, coughing a bit from the unexpected surge of fluids in his mouth. John grinned apologetically and the Man shot John a wicked grin and then dove down for more.

Sherlock got more head action in before John came a second time, bobbing his head and swirling his tongue over the tip of John’s cock. John whimpered and weakly flexed his hips and whispered his name as though it were a filthy word. Sherlock’s response was to moan throatily around his cock and then suck all the more enthusiastically, drawing more pleasure from his Satyr lover.

John had his hands tangled in Sherlock’s curls by then, gasping and writhing on the bed. He pulled the pillow out from behind his head – which jarred it terribly – and stuffed it over his face to muffle his voice as he lost all control and began to moan out loud. His soft sounds escalated to cries of pleasure as Sherlock slipped a wet digit between his cheeks and rubbed his pucker until he spilled himself down the man’s throat for the third time.

Sherlock popped off when he was certain that John was satisfied, pulled the pillow off his face, and made sure John was watching as he slipped his own cock out and tugged on it fast and hard. John was all but drooling; reaching a hand out pleadingly as the words ‘please let me touch you’ hovered in his mouth but refused to actually coalesce into a sentence. Sherlock, as usual, read his mind and all but plopped his bollocks down in John’s palm. John rolled them and watched his Man throw his head back and bite at the back of his arm to stem his moans. Sherlock came shamefully all over the side of the bed and floor. John loved every second of it, though he ignored his twitching cock. There was no way he’d come again without a something up his arse.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock tucked himself back in, wondering at the disappointed look on John’s face. A glance down showed his lover still hard, but quickly softening. He knew from experience that John would be frantic if he hadn’t been satisfied, yet he still looked a bit… sad.

“I’m going to do better,” Sherlock promised as John tucked himself in and then fidgeted with his bedclothes, “I was just… excited about my first case. Well, my first _official_ case. I mean, I’ve told you about all the work I’ve done before hand, but this was for _New Scotland Yard_.”

John nodded quietly and replied with a small, sad smile.

“I love you,” He stated, his tone of voice making it a leading reply rather than an endearment.

_Do you love me, too? Am I important, too? How often will I fall to the wayside?_

“I… You’re all I have besides the work.”

John’s small smile was gone. His arms were folded. He was looking at Sherlock as though he were seeing him for the first time and Sherlock was well aware of what people who met him for the first time thought of him. He shifted uncomfortably, not used to _caring_ when someone disliked him. Had the language barrier been that big? Had they been fools in love?

John took a deep breath in through his nose, and let it out slowly while studying the foot of the bed. Sherlock could feel his stomach slowly clenching up and his heart lurching painfully in his chest. John would reject him. Hate him. Like so many others had before him. He could go on, but would there be a point? His antique syringe was still packed away in its designer case. It would take him all of a five-minute walk to a place he could by cocaine, a mere ten to buy morphine. Of course a leap off a building would be faster and more likely to kill; gods forbid he ended up brain-dead for twenty years before finally wasting away.

“Well,” John sighed, “how did you do it?”

“Solve the case?”

“Yeah, solve the case. How did you figure all that out?”

Sherlock smiled and launched into an explanation, starting with the advertisement that the assistant of the pawnbroker showed to him for the Red Headed League and ending with their almost-catastrophic arrest. John smiled the entire time, exclaiming as to his brilliance on a regular a basis as he always did. The only difference was in his eyes. His normally bright blue eyes weren’t shining like they always did. Sherlock’s bluster vanished when his monologue ran out and John’s eyes were still muted.

“John, what do you want from me?” Sherlock asked, alarmed at the pleading tone in his voice.

“I don’t know,” John’s accent thickened as it often did when he was upset.

Sherlock stilled, waiting for John to either run or explode, but of course he couldn’t very well run with a concussion. Sherlock was lucky he hadn’t thrown up again while he’d been giving him head.

“John…” Sherlock started, fidgeting with the blankets once more. He needed something to _do_ with his hands.

John waited for him to continue, but for once Sherlock was speechless. Several minutes passed in which Sherlock sweated and waited and then finally grasped both of John’s hands and just held them tightly, staring down at them in fear. They were callused and strong- workers hands- the hands of a man who fought hard for everything he had every day of his life. Sherlock’s hands were smooth, soft: aristocrat’s hands. Even after filing papers for months on end, the only rough spots they had were from his violin playing and a few thin scars from chemistry accidents.

Sherlock brought those digits to his fingers and kissed each one before pressing both palms to his cheeks and breathing in the scent on John’s wrists. When he raised his eyes to John’s he saw them sparkle again.

“There you are,” John smiled softly.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock replied, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

“My husband,” John replied, tugging Sherlock’s hands until he leaned forward for a kiss, “I missed you.”

Understanding lit in Sherlock’s eyes. He nodded and smiled warmly.

“I won’t leave again.”

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/55014.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 12

John became so irritable over the next week that Sherlock began to worry he had some sort of neurological damage from the attack. They had no insurance, so the hospital bill was already overwhelming them despite John having work. Even so, he was shocked to come home from meeting with Lestrade at NSY and find John sitting on the couch. Sherlock groaned.

“Did you get fired?” He asked.

“No, I took a week off work,” John replied, frowning and shifting about on the couch as though uncomfortable, “You have to do the same.”

“I do not!” Sherlock scoffed, “And how can you take a week off of a job you just got? Not even I’m that arrogant.”

“I have to stop working. I need to be home. So do you.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied his husband. John was in a robe and cuddling a mug of tea as though it were life-giving. He was clearly sulking, though for no obvious reason. He kept twitching his ears and occasionally jerked his head to the side. His personality had taken a sudden turn towards stroppy since his head injury.

“Right. We’re taking you to hospital.”

“What? Why?”

“You are showing clear signs of neurological damage. For all we know you could be seconds from suffering an aneurism or stroke; perhaps you have brain damage and require surgery. I’ll let the doctor’s figure those little details out. Up you get.”

“I’ll deal with it later.”

“No, you will deal with it _now_. What part of ‘seconds from death’ did you not understand?”

“I’m not leaving home. Not for a week. Neither are you,” John replied, eyes narrowed. He snorted wildly when Sherlock headed his way to drag him out if needed, “I’m NOT leaving and neither are you!”

Sherlock gaped in shock as John scrambled to his feet, letting his teacup smash on the floor, gripped Sherlock’s arm and hauled him over his head. Sherlock had been too floored by his behavior to avoid his grasp and was now dangling over his shoulder with a face full of Satyr rump. John’s tail had lifted his dressing gown and it flicked Sherlock’s face making him sneeze.

Sherlock was dumped down on their bed and then promptly sat on. John growled at him when he began to move and Sherlock froze in alarm, becoming especially confused when John tugged open the drawer at their bedside that contained their lube and a few toys. John selected the conical dildo used to prepare Sherlock for penetration and squirted it liberally with lube.

“Darling,” Sherlock tried, ignoring his warning growl, “As hot as this is- and it is a quite a bit- you really need to see a doct…”

Sherlock’s argument was cut off by John flipping him over and pressing the toy into him, working the tip while Sherlock gasped and wriggled a bit.

“I may want to top you today. Or maybe tomorrow. I’m not sure when. You need to stay loose for me every day until I’m ready.”

“That’s… a bit erotic… smothering, but arousing nonetheless. John, listen to me, you’re not yourself.”

“I will be. I will be soon. Later. Now you need to be _stretched_.”

Sherlock was panting and pushing back on the toy, his cock hard and leaking beneath him. Once John had worked the thickest part of the toy into Sherlock’s body he released the handle and left it there while rubbing his back and crooning lovingly. Sherlock whimpered, wanting satisfaction now they’d started, but the next move John made was to _remove_ the toy and walk to the bathroom to clean it. Sherlock lay still, waiting for him to return and fuck him into the mattress, loving the commanding growls of his normally tender lover. When John returned, however, he was flaccid and calm once more.

“I’ll do that again tomorrow morning. Remember, don’t leave the flat,” John instructed, and then turned to leave.

“That’s _it_?! Just stretch me and leave me wanting?!” Sherlock stammered in frustration, rising to his knees and pointing to his bobbing cock.

“Oh, and don’t wank,” John added, then turned and left him kneeling on the bed, hard, dripping, and gaping.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, tempted to take care of things himself but fully aware the Satyr would hear him and stop him. Then it hit him and he slapped himself square in the forehead at his own stupidity. Standing, Sherlock walked out into the sitting room where John was grouchily sitting down with a fresh cup of tea.

“You’re going on rut soon, aren’t you?”

“What does ‘rut’ mean?” John asked, his eyes narrowed.

“You’re going to need sex, lots of sex, and it will be a biological imperative.”

“Huh, so that’s the word. Rut. Yes,” John nodded, sipping his tea and then grimacing, “We’re out of milk.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson to go out for us… and I’ll text Lestrade that I can’t work for the next… week?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

Sherlock sent off the text and received a lewd reply complete with winking emoticon. He rolled his eyes, showed it to John, and laughed when the Satyr went off on a rant about how Lestrade had no right to make a pass at _his husband_.

“Relax, you hormonal thing, he isn’t making a pass at me!” Sherlock laughed, “He’s just being perverted.”

“You’re mine. Only I can be perverted with you!” John snatched Sherlock up and snogged him hungrily, his feet dangling on the ground as he hadn’t managed to get them under him when he’d been pulled up.

John groaned and Sherlock reached a hand down to stroke his stiffened cock, but the Buck pushed him away with a slight shake of his head.

“Not yet.”

“This is _torture_ ,” Sherlock groaned, collapsing into his chair dramatically.

“It will be worth it when I get to give you multiple orgasms again,” John replied, sounding out the words that he was less familiar with.

Sherlock sighed and nodded miserably.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft couldn’t take it any more. He needed Gregory. He needed him like a physical _ache_. Surely his father wouldn’t begrudge him a few hours of pleasure so long as he remained obedient? But how to _ask?_

It wasn’t even the sex Mycroft wanted. It was the smell, that sweet-hay and basil smell that always lingered around Gregory Lestrade from his daily meal of Satyr styled alfalfa-based salad. He needed his strong arms and his tickling legs. His easy smile and throaty laugh. He needed to hear the Buck’s voice and know that he was still loved… even if he didn’t deserve it.

He’d settle for a quick fuck and thought the Faun might as well.

**I need to see you right away. A car is waiting for you. – M**

**Are you okay? – GL**

Mycroft didn’t reply. His nerves were frayed and he was certain if he did it would be to text some garbled love proclamation. His father was undoubtedly monitoring their phone messages. He would wait to see what Mycroft’s move would be and then either move to intercept or text him a threat. Since there was nothing to intercept, it was likely a third option of an interrogation over dinner would be the results. Once Mycroft explained it had been a quick shag and nothing else the man would laugh it off and ignore his eldest son’s antics.

Mycroft waited in the warehouse, making sure everything was set up for them; a scented candle to mute the stink of mildew, a bowl of fruits to feed to each other if time allowed, a clean mattress to be fucked into fast and hard regardless of time. He had stretched himself a few moments ago, but re-dressed for Gregory’s appearance. He wanted the man to tear his clothes off.

The door to the office room Mycroft had chosen for their raundevous opened and Gregory stepped in, his face lined with worry as Anthea shut the door behind him. Then he met Mycroft’s eyes and they widened in surprise as he took in his surroundings.

“You… this…”

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, feeling himself flush with desire, “I’ve…”

“Fuck you,” Gregory replied, anger flashing in his eyes, “Bloody hell, I thought something was _wrong_. I thought you were _hurt._ ”

“I am hurting…”

“Then I suggest you find someone to take care of it. Perhaps one of the hired help,” Gregory turned and stomped off, but Mycroft chased after him.

“Wait! Let me explain!”

“Explain what? How you want me to fuck you and then go back to being ignored again? Not happening.”

“I have no other choice!”

“You chose money over me, that’s a pretty clear path, My!”

“I never meant… I never imagined…”

“You’ve got a pretty poor imagination for such a brilliant man, but let me spell this out for you since you obviously don’t have a fucking _clue._ I’m not your sex toy. I’m not your stress relief. I’m sure as hell not your _lover_ , because you don’t treat me like one! So read my lips _Mr. Holmes._ FUCK! OFF!”

Gregory spun on his heal and stormed off while Mycroft stood staring after him in misery.

“P-please,” Mycroft choked out as he reached the barely-hinged door leading to the parking lot where Anthea waited with one of his father’s posh cars, “Please, Gregory, I have no one else.”

“You haven’t got _me.”_

Mycroft swallowed down the sob that crept up, but couldn’t keep back the tears. Gregory saw them and swore angrily. He walked back to Mycroft, gripped his arm and tugged him back towards the office. Then he paused.

“You know what? You want a cheep fuck, then that’s what you’re getting. On the floor. Now.”

Mycroft gave him a disgusted look, but Gregory simply gripped his shoulders and swept his legs out from under him with one foot. Mycroft toppled down with a shout of alarm and Gregory was on him like a wild thing, tearing the front of his trousers open and pulling them down around his ankles.

“Gregory!” Mycroft gasped, hardening despite his abhorrence of the method.

“Little slut,” Gregory growled, and then covered his lips before he could protest the term.

They kissed like teenagers on the filthy floor for several minutes; Mycroft didn’t realize that Gregory had been stretching himself until the man straddled his hips and then slid down on Mycroft’s aching erection. Mycroft threw his head back and shouted in shocked pleasure as tight, wet heat swallowed him whole. Gregory moaned and began to ride him fast.

“Greg-or-ry c-c-condom!” Mycroft gasped, knowing they had always used one when Gregory had bottomed in the past.

“Uh-uh, not this time,” Gregory grunted, then squeezed his muscles until Mycroft came with a strangled cry. 

He held himself in place for several minutes, lazily stroking his cock while Mycroft panted beneath him, boneless and shocked at his former lover’s behavior.

“Gregory I… I meant for you…” Mycroft reached up to wrap his hands around Gregory’s throbbing member, but the man slid off of him and stood to leave.

“I don’t want you,” He replied coldly.

Mycroft lay on the floor in shock and pain as the man tugged his pants back on and walked out of the building in silence. Once the door clanged shut behind him Mycroft rolled onto his side, crawled over to the office he’d intended on using to re-seduce Gregory, curled up on the mattress, and wept until Anthea came to get him.

[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/55232.html)


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 13

Lestrade shuffled into his apartment, ignoring the confused look on his neighbor’s face at his odd walk. He had never clenched his muscles so hard in his _life_ ; his muscles were strained from his efforts. He continued his odd shuffle-walk into the bedroom where he dropped his trousers, pulled open a drawer, shifted through it frantically, and pulled out a butt plug with a relieved cry. He scrambled up onto the bed, still clenching his muscles, and stretched out. He pressed the plug forcefully into his hole and then went limp on the bed as he finally allowed his muscles to relax. Mycroft’s precious seed was safe inside his body… not that it meant he’d have very much of a chance of conceiving when he wasn’t even on Rut, but he could always hope.

Lestrade crawled up to the head of the bed, gripped the pillow and buried his face in it. He felt his eyes burn with tears but held off the sobs that tried to wrack his body. He refused to weep over a man who had used and dismissed him so easily, not when he’d all but been married to the man. They’d lived together as husbands, Mycroft sweet and at peace with the domesticity that he had slipped into so quickly. From the first time he’d returned home to see him sitting on the couch- trying not to look nervous- he had known the man needed him... _Gods_ he had bought the _broom_ , he’d just been waiting for the right time to ask him formally.

_I’ve never been so wrong about someone in my entire life,_ Lestrade thought to himself, _But it doesn’t change how much I love him or want his Kidds._

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock woke to the feel of hands grasping his hips and tugging on his limp member.

“Ow! John! Too hard!” Sherlock snapped, slapping him away.

“Sherlock! **Please! It hurts! Oh, Zeus, please!”**

John threw the blankets off them both and the air that hit Sherlock from beneath them was flooded with Rut hormones, causing his cock to swell painfully fast. While Sherlock was still gasping for breath John was lowering himself down on him, his hole dripping with natural lubricant. Sherlock gasped for breath, his body heating up as his heart rate accelerated rapidly. He was bucking up in desperation as John keened and rode him fast, frantic for relief. Sherlock flipped them and groaned as John wrapped his legs tightly around Sherlock’s waist moving his legs to encourage deep thrusts.

XXX

John was in agony, his body on fire with need, the second Sherlock was inside him he felt relief for the emptiness, but he _needed_ to climax immediately! When Sherlock flipped them over and drove into him he shouted in pleasure, wrapped his legs around him, and then came explosively. Sherlock moaned and stilled through John’s orgasm, but didn’t hesitate to continue thrusting into him fast and hard.

“ **I love you,”** John panted.

“Same,” Sherlock gasped, then tugged John’s legs from around his waist and bent him in half.

John howled and came again as his prostate was brutalized by Sherlock’s long, thin cock. He scratched along his lover’s chest, arching his back as pleasure overwhelmed him. His cock pulsed and throbbed and he was so _close_ to yet another climax when he felt Sherlock’s cock swell inside of him in impending orgasm.

“ **YES! Fill me! Come inside me!”** John screamed and reached down to grasp Sherlock’s hips and held him inside as he spilled deep inside his body.

XXX

Sherlock had been so _close_. He’d been about to pull out, but John had held him in. Now he stared down at him in horror as he realized he’d ejaculated inside him _during a Rut_. John was twice as likely to become pregnant during a Rut!

_Oh, gods, I’m not ready for parenthood!_

John whimpered, writhing beneath him and bucking up, scratching at his hips desperately.

“Sherlock! **Please!** **I need more! PLEASE!** ”

Sherlock gasped, his cock throbbing painfully as the Rut hormones pulsed through his veins and demanded he breed John faster and harder. He dropped the Satyr’s legs and snarled at him to roll over. John scrambled over and Sherlock thrust back into him wildly, gasping in pain as he bent a bit, but the slide _in_ …

“John!”

“Sherlock! Uhhhhn, **want your Kidds so bad!”**

Sherlock gasped in surprise and then again as John clenched and came _hard,_ screaming out his pleasure as his body bucked frantically. Sherlock was so close to another climax that when the Satyr fainted beneath him he leaned over his limp body and continued to thrust until he came with blood pounding in his ears and stars flashing behind his eyes. This time he didn’t even _think_ to pull out. Gasping, Sherlock maneuvered John into a more comfortable position with shaking hands and then rolled onto the bed beside him. The Satyr would be out for an hour or so, but he’d wake up just as aroused and frantic for more. Sherlock rolled over and gulped down water, glad John had insisted on leaving a lot of it around the house for his Rut. He lifted John and coaxed the barely-concious Buck to gulp down several mouthfuls before lowering him back to the bed for some much needed rest. Then he let himself collapse once more.

XXXXXXXXXXX

**You will inform me if you become pregnant- M**

**Don’t order me around- GL**

**You will need an abortion, I can get that done quietly so no one finds out about it- M**

**My kind don’t get abortions. Don’t you worry, I won’t trouble you for money. You can keep every filthy pound your daddy gives you- GL**

**In that case I insist on being in the child’s life- M**

**Not a chance in hell- GL**

**You don’t have the right to keep me out- M**

**What would daddy say?- GL**

Mycroft sat on the edge of his bed and shook with emotions so violent he had no name for them. He wasn’t angry, sad, hopeful, worried, or frightened; it was possible he was feeling all of them at once.

XXX

Gregory dropped his phone down onto his pillow, walked across the room, grimacing as the butt plug re-invigorated his unsatisfied erection from earlier, and pulled a shirt out of a sealed plastic container. He breathed in Mycroft’s scent and then quickly returned it before sitting down on the edge of the bed and taking his throbbing member in hand. In his mind it was Mycroft who caressed his body and fisted his cock, but a Mycroft who had never left him for money. He arched his back and pretended the plug in his arse were Mycroft’s fingers. When he came he sobbed his missing lover’s name and finally gave in to the tears.

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/55498.html)


	14. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 14

Sherlock came back from a concert he’d been gifted a ticket to for solving a case and found both Lestrade and John huddled in the bathroom eating crisps and staring at a couple of white, plastic sticks on the sink edge in front of them. Sherlock glanced down, found no known data on what they were but jumped to a relatively obvious conclusion based on location and the yellow on the felt tips of the sticks.

“Oh, no. Not you, too,” Sherlock sighed at Lestrade.

“He propositioned me,” Lestrade shrugged, “Gave him what he wanted. Last time, though.”

“Sure it was,” Sherlock sighed with a roll of his eyes.

The timer in the kitchen made them all jump and John practically bowled Lestrade over trying to get to his piss-covered stick first. Sherlock found himself holding his breath as he visualized John holding something _very_ different. To his disappointment John sank down on the toiletseat with his head in his hands. Lestrade on the other hand, had gone very still.

Sherlock moved around the half-Satyr and sat on the tub edge so he could stroke John’s bare shoulder in comfort, though no small part of him was relieved.

“Next time. We’ll have me top more to increase our odds. It will happen, John… perhaps it’s just not time.”

Lestrade dropped his stick into the bin and held it up for John to do the same. John dropped his in with shaky fingers, trying not to cry. When Sherlock glanced casually up at Lestrade he saw the man doing the same, but for an entirely different reason.

“ _No_ ,” Sherlock breathed, his eyes widening in shock.

John glanced up and his eyes went wide too as some Satyr-only code passed between the two Bucks when their eyes met. John surged off his seat and threw his arms around Lestrade’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly there, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“ **May your Kidds be healthy and strong,”** John whispered.

**“May your next Rut be a fertile one,** ” Lestrade whispered back, hugging John tightly about the middle.

“ _Gods_ ,” Sherlock swore softly, “What are you going to do? Tell Mycroft?”

“No, and don’t you tell him either!” Lestrade snapped, pulling out of John’s embrace and nearly unbalancing him.

“You’re going to have a Kidd, possibly more than one. I think he’ll notice.”

“I’m going to the reservation. John’s invited me. Ostensibly it’s to re-connect with my roots.”

“You’ll be telling your superiors at the Yard, then?” Sherlock asked.

“There won’t be a point. I’m not coming back,” Lestrade stated and Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm, “You’ll be on your own from here on out, so try not to piss anyone off… again.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

It was a day later that Mycroft showed up at their door and at first Sherlock was convinced by his uncharacteristic jittery behavior that he _knew_ , but the man brought up a quite different topic.

“I need all the information you have on CAM Devil.”

“The blackmailer? Is he why you’ve abandoned Lestrade and your only shot with someone who sees you as something besides a walking moneypurse?” Sherlock snarled.

Mycroft winced but then shook his head, “Father doesn’t need a professional blackmailer to get what he wants from me.”

“Ahhhh, but you _do_. You’re going to fight fire with fire!” Sherlock grinned and fetched a small notebook from which he ripped a piece of paper before handing it to Mycroft, who looked disappointed at the small amount of information he’d been handed.

“I can only hope he has evidence in hand as I have found none despite searching our entire manor twice,” Mycroft sighed in frustration.

“I doubt it, father doesn’t hire just any servant.”

“Is that how CAM goes about it? I had thought it would be something more original,” Mycroft frowned in disgust.

“I’m afraid not, but his methods- while glaringly simple- are effective. After all he’s regarded by the upper class to be nothing short of _the_ devil.”

“Yes, it’s only father’s complete disavowal of you that has stopped you from being used as leverage against him; the entire of society knows of your ‘downfall’ and who- or rather _what-_ it is with.”

“Keep talking like that, we both know it’s a grey tail you visualize when you masturbate at night.”

“As though I would dishonor Gregory by allowing myself completion without him,” Mycroft replied in disgust, “Though I will not deny he graces my more… interesting dreams.”

“You talk plainly with me, this is new.”

“I want you to be an ally, brother, not an enemy. Father has me keeping an eye on you, but I’d like you to keep an eye on Gregory and report back to me. I can see you are compensated for it.”

“A pity you didn’t make this offer months ago,” Sherlock frowned, “Gregory is gone.”

“Gone? I’m aware that my little bird was unable to track him for the last few hour, but father had been…”

“No, he is quite gone: to the reservation where he intends to remain for the rest of his days. It seems he’s lost his love for Humanity,” Sherlock replied, sparing him the details about his offspring.

Mycroft, sadly, was not to be denied, “Is he…? He is. I see it on your face. _Gods_.”

Mycroft sank down into a chair and stared blankly at the floor, his mask firmly in place while Sherlock struggled with this new view of his brother as a _person_ instead of just the weighty hand of his father.

“What will you do?”

“I don’t… I can’t…”

“Whatever father has on you, is it worth you never seeing your progeny?”

“ _Yes_.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in alarm as Mycroft’s eyes flew up to meet his with more meaning and emotion behind him than Sherlock had ever seen even on _John_ ’ _s_ expressive face. It hit him then, and he felt a cold pain tighten in his stomach.

“He’s threatened me. You’ve left the only happiness you’ve ever been given because he’s threatened me. It isn’t blackmail: it’s _terrorism_. Mycroft… brother… I’m not _worth_ it.”

“But you and John combined _are_.”

Sherlock felt that pit of fear twist and squeeze nauseatingly, he swallowed down the bile that threatened to come up and gripped the armrests of his chair tightly.

“We’ll go to the reservation, too…” Sherlock started.

“He doesn’t care _where_ you are. That’s hardly the point.”

“I’ll tell Lestrade. I’ll tell him the _truth_.”

“It will make him sad. Don’t.”

“He’s already sad.”

“Sad and _angry_ , justifiably angry. If you tell him he’ll just be left with sad.”

“You… you are a better person than I gave you credit for being,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

“You are less childish than I was willing to recognize,” Mycroft replied softly.

They sat in contemplative silence for some time while Sherlock slowly dragged his bow across his violin, not playing a song so much as pulling out soft, minor notes to express the mood of the room. Eventually, Mycroft stood and left, his brolly all but dragging on the ground behind him.

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/55743.html)


	15. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 15

Agaat rubbed herb-laden oils into Lestrade’s swollen belly, not skimping on the parts covered by fur. She smiled warmly at him when the hormones made his eyes tear up and helped him rise up from his cot. He was only three months into his pregnancy, but he was already heavy with child. Agaat had identified two Kidds in his belly and was monitoring him closely. While Satyr usually had multiple births, Agaat had not tended a halfer with multiples and other healers had voiced concerns to her charge.

Once Agaat left, Lestrade sat back down on the edge of the cot and sighed in misery. He hated it. He hated being pregnant. He hated the smell of the herbs that were coating his itchy, achy belly. He hated the kicks to his bladder and the constipation. He hated the poor facilities and the lack of English-speaking anyone. He hated himself. He hated Mycroft. The only thing he didn’t hate were the Kidds growing inside his body. He already loved them more than life itself.

Lestrade opened the book full of baby names he’d picked up on his way to the train station and his new life. He had over twenty circled and was far from narrowing it down. He had two months of pregnancy left to decide on the perfect two (better choose three, just in case) names for his perfect children.

XXXXXXXXX

Mycroft watched carefully as his father’s yes-men swarmed around him: delivering packages, bringing information, attempting to surpass him and failing at every turn.

_They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. My father so far has justified himself and his actions based on my and so many others striving to become him. Does he know it’s for the money and prestige rather than any kind of respect we might have had for him had he been a better person? Does he know we can’t possibly care for him? Does he care? Has he ever been loved even once in his life?_

Sherlock had a plan. Sherlock had a remarkably _brilliant_ plan, but the longer he stayed in his father’s presence the more the urge to simply sneak into his room and slit his throat blossomed in his mind. He knew he could manage it. All he had to do was pretend to be on an urgent phone call- arguing with someone in a foreign language the guards didn’t know would do the trick- but drop silent the moment they opened the door for him. It had happened a thousand times before when business had interrupted their sleep. He would walk in, slit his father’s throat, walk back out with a frustrated look while telling Anthea to get a car ready for them to take care of urgent business. He’d leave and wait with Anthea. After an hour, he’d go back upstairs to find out why his father hadn’t shown and find him murdered. He’d be suspect, of course, but he would also have absolutely no motive in the eyes of the law. Only he saw to inherit and his father gave him 100% access to funds without his approval. He also had become independently rich in his own right when several investments of his made a shocking turn and he’d sold fast to catch the market in an upswing before investing low again when it dropped back down. To the eyes of all around him, Mycroft all but worshipped his father; he could play the grieving son and eventually someone else would be blamed or the case thrown out by his very own lawyer.

The only thing that stopped him was how very pedestrian that plan was. It just didn’t have the Holmes flair.

_Yet another argument for court: no one who knows us would believe I would do something so low and simple as slitting his throat. I don’t even fit the profile._

Sherlock’s plan was one that Mycroft had thrice now put the brakes on. The plan involved some of his original idea to get CAM Devil to blackmail his father, but instead Charles Augustus Milverton (Mycroft had discovered the identity behind the moniker) would blackmail Mycroft with information provided by Sherlock. Mycroft would refuse to pay and Milverton would expose the relationship with Gregory and that the Faun was pregnant. Mycroft would be publicly disgraced, his father humiliated in conjunction, and if that failed to free Mycroft from his grasp there was plan B: fake their deaths. Mycroft, feigning need for psychiatric treatment due to depression from his outing, would go to St. Bart’s where he would run into Sherlock, have a very public argument about shaming their family, and then flee to the rooftop to commit suicide. Once there, Sherlock would follow him and try to talk him down while calling in his police friends for help. When they failed to get him to leave the ledge, Sherlock would attempt to bodily remove him from it, they would fall to their ‘deaths’, and his friend Molly would cover up the fact it was never Mycroft on the ledge (and a similarly made mannequin thrown in for Sherlock) by collecting the ‘bodies’ and making sure they were never identified as fakes.

The reason Mycroft had put the halt on this plan more than once was because it involved forcing John and Gregory both to see them die… and not know it was an act. He wanted their father to see them being mourned for to make it more believable. Mycroft was terrified Gregory- who he firmly believed still loved him- would lose the child if put under such stress.

Mycroft smiled and nodded when his father gave him his assignments for the day. ‘Check up on Sherlock’ was always a favorite of his. While his father assumed the boys were still fighting- as Mycroft was now certain he had made sure of for years by pitting them against each other and reporting things whispered in confidence- Mycroft was in fact slowly building a healthy relationship with his brother.

Mycroft stood and headed out the door with his umbrella clasped in his hand like a sword. His father hadn’t noticed that it wasn’t his previous umbrella. Mycroft had taken Gregory’s by accident in his hurry to leave the flat that fateful day. Originally he had always carried an umbrella because he hated to get his expensive suits wet, and his original umbrella doubled as a weapon with it’s sleek sword tucked within, but now it had become something of a security blanket. He didn’t even miss the old one had a decidedly delusional feeling that this one would keep him safer than the first one.

His visit with Sherlock was uneventful despite John’s usual pleading that he seek out and reunite with Gregory. He did his best to ignore John and Sherlock gave him coded information as to the Buck’s wellbeing. Soothed that Gregory was doing well in his fourth month of pregnancy, Mycroft stood and headed for the door only to have it open before he could reach it.

“Mycroft Holmes?” The DI on the others side growled. His nametag read Pickering.

“How may I help you, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“You’re under arrest.”

“For what?” Mycroft asked as the man pulled out a pair of cuffs.

“The murder of Siger Holmes.”

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/55936.html)


	16. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 16

Mycroft stared across the pictures and once more had to restrain the happy smile that wanted to spread across his face. The entire household was dead. Mycroft, Anthea, and Sherlock had been spared by the simple fact they weren’t within the grounds. A 999 call had alerted them that something horrific had happened in the Holmes Estate, but when the Yard arrived it was to find the gate locked electronically from the outside, the wall virtually un-scalable, and the guard in the guardhouse visible but unresponsive. His head was lulled back as though asleep, but the police expected a far worse fate. Indeed, they were not wrong, because when they finally were able to get into the grounds they found the entire household dead save a few confused maids who had been in the pantry making dough for bread. The maids had heard and seen nothing.

Poison was determined to be the cause of death, and snakebites were found on the person of each victim. Once this was discovered John and Sherlock were arrested as well, despite Mrs. Hudson’s protests. The reason for this was that poisoning a slave owner during the Satyr enslavement had been fairly common, and the symbolic way to accomplish that act was with a snake that existed primarily on the same Greek Islands that the Satyr peoples had been discovered on. The Milos Viper, [Vipera lebetina schweizeri](http://www.arkive.org/cyclades-blunt-nosed-viper/macrovipera-schweizeri/), also known as the Cyclades Blunt-nosed Viper, was the main snake used. At one point during the height of rebellion by the Satyr slaves, the Fauns had passed the same snake from slave to slave, killing hundreds of human ‘masters’ before someone put the pieces together and captured both attempted murderer and viper.

“The Milos Viper, or _Vipera lebetina schweizeri,_ is on the endangered species list,” Mycroft informed calmly as he frowned sadly at a favored servant who had suffered death at the hands of his father’s murderer, “It is unlikely that enough snakes would be located- or even bred- to kill off this many people. They could at best only bite a person twice each and would be unlikely to do so en-masse.”

“We’re aware of that, thank you,” DI Pickering snarled. He’d long since lost patience with Mycroft’s know-it-all attitude.

“Then you’re also aware that this almost looks as though someone were trying to _frame_ Satyrs?” Mycroft replied in annoyance, “After all, it’s a well known and highly symbolic way to kill someone off. To my knowledge my father had no Satyr slaves, he didn’t even employ them because he believed them to be highly sexualized degenerates.”

“Clearly the murder was both personal and an attempt at publicity,” Pickering sneered.

“The only thing clear here is that you are a fool,” Mycroft snorted, “Has a medical examiner determined the bites were not from snakes, but Man or Satyr-made in some way?”

“No.”

“Has a _competent_ medical examiner taken a look at the…”

Pickering stood up and stomped from the room in disgust while Mycroft settled back and gave his nervous lawyer an annoyed look; the man wasn’t his proper lawyer, he was an appointed one. They were holding all his assets to be examined stating that they were certain money was the motive for the crime. None of Mycroft’s protests- or his lawyer’s pathetic stammering- had convinced them to allow his _own_ lawyer to be employed. For all he knew the woman was numbered amongst the dead.

Eventually, all evidence was exhausted and Mycroft and John were released with Mrs. Hudson’s alibi and insistence there were _no_ snakes in her flatshare. Mycroft, John, and Sherlock went back to 221B where the three of them took turns showering and then collapsed onto various pieces of furniture.

“Alright, _fine_ ,” Sherlock snarled, “How _did_ you manage it?”

“What?” Mycroft asked, gaping at Sherlock in shock.

“How. Did. You. Do. It?” Sherlock enunciated, “I admit it, brother, you are smarter than me: a fact we have both known. What I didn’t realize was that you were a man of action as well. I’ve looked at it from all angles and I can’t find a way for you to get the snakes _in_ let alone _out,_ all while here, unseen, and not in contact with the Satyr community- of which I have been assured you were not. I thought perhaps a time-delayed trap, but that wouldn’t explain how it was delivered. I thought you might have hired people, but I launched my own investigation- discreetly, of course, and for my own amusement- before the police arrested me and found no evidence of such. So. I admit to being thoroughly flummoxed. How did you do it oh-great-and-powerful-Holmes?”

Sherlock ended his fast-spoken and furiously delivered speech with a roll of his eyes and a slouch back down onto the couch.

“I thought you had,” Mycroft replied, his face lax with shock.

“Oh, very funny, brother!” Sherlock snarled.

“I assure you I’m not joking in the slightest. I assumed you the culprit and was waiting for you to divulge your methods!” Mycroft was alarmed, “If it wasn’t either of us, then that means our lives may be in danger. There may be someone out there attempting to wipe out the entire Holmes family. Gods! Gregory! Gregory and our children could be…!”

“Calm down,” John stated softly, but with enough order behind his voice to make both men stop and look at him in surprise, “You won’t be harmed, though you may be tested.”

“Tested? You know what’s going on?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“It is the Némein.”

Sherlock snorted, “This isn’t some action from a merciless goddess, John.”

“You should have more faith, Sherlock,” John replied, his Greek accent creeping in as he gave Sherlock an annoyed look, “You may be tested, too, especially if you show such _hubris_.”

“I’m always arrogant, the gods would have dealt with me sooner if it were an issue with them,” Sherlock laughed mockingly.

“If [Nemesis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nemesis_%28mythology%29) hears you!” John snapped, jumping up and looking agitated.

“If? I thought she was an all-knowing goddess?” Sherlock laughed.

“She is inescapable! Adrasteia!”

“I’m aware of the mythology, John, but it is simply that: mythology. No goddess poisoned our father and his servants. The only remaining question is _who did_ ,” Sherlock looked over at a baffled Mycroft, “Do you think Gregory…?”

“No. He would never break the law. Not like that. It isn’t in his nature,” Mycroft clutched the umbrella closer. John’s words had unnerved him, though he no more believed in gods and goddesses than Sherlock did.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft woke to a caress across his shoulder and opened his eyes with Gregory’s name on his lips. He was alone. He sat up in confusion and looked around. He was in his rooms in the Holmes estate. It had been a month since the mysterious massacre and the police had finally released the building and grounds to him after having them scoured by the top investigators in the country… and Sherlock who had come in after out of sheer curiosity. None had a clue as to what had happened.

A glimmer of light outside his bedroom surprised Mycroft and he stood quickly and hurried across the room, throwing open his door and peering out despite his state of undress in merely a pair of nightpants and vest. A sound, softer than a whisper, drew his ears in the direction of the hallway. It was dancing with dust motes in the pale moonlight shining through a large window; Mycroft had been unable to hire new servants due to the mysterious happening at the great old house. He couldn’t possibly clean the entire thing himself, though he had managed to get a crew to come through and clean the mess from the murders and subsequent investigators.

Mycroft walked slowly down the hallway towards the darkened corner he’d heard a soft sigh from. His feet made no sound on the ground and there was no answering noise, yet the hair on the back of his neck and hands still rose as some unearthly terror filled him and took his breath away.

Rasping for breath as he struggled past some instinctual urge to flee, Mycroft rounded the pitch-black corner and saw a candle glowing on a table. It hadn’t been there before. Following it down the hall to another Mycroft found the air filled with a thick scent as though incense were burning, but he saw no trace of it or a holder. Something once more caressed his ankle and he glanced down, freezing in horror at the sight of a blunt-nosed viper curled at his feet.

Mycroft stopped breathing. He had no idea for how long, but dots were dancing behind his eyes by the time the snake turned and slithered away leaving him to sag into the wall in relief. Mycroft’s stomach was shaking with anxiety and he felt the urge to relieve his bladder so intensely he nearly turned and fled down the hall while clutching his groin, but a new movement made him clench and freeze once more. A figure emerged from the shadows; he thought it a woman though he could see no distinct features. She moved in an entirely unfamiliar way as she knelt down and scooped the viper from the floor. As she turned he caught the sight of a hoof, but she vanished before he could find his voice to call her back.

Mycroft stood in the hallway, a growing wet patch in his trousers as he quite literally pissed himself for the first time in decades, and trembled in mindless fear. From around the corner and down the hall into his open bedroom he heard his phone ringing. It was the ringtone from “Princess Bride”, Gregory’s favorite romantic comedy and his personal ringtone on Mycroft’s phone.

XXX

John let out a sigh of relief as the snake slid into the shadows away from the foot of their bed. It would be gone by morning, he was sure of that. Beside him his beloved slept on, completely unaware of the near-death experience they had both just had. John staggered from the bed and into the bathroom where he had to sit for the weakness in his knees as he peed like a person giving birth and loosing their womb-fluids. Once the agony left his body he stood and headed shakily for their bedroom and jarred Sherlock awake.

“Sherlock? Lover? We have to get dressed. We have to leave. Gregory is in labor. He will want us there. Can you ‘text’ Mycroft? I still am shaky with written word and I don’t want to alarm him by phrasing this poorly.”

“What makes you think Lestrade is in labor?” Sherlock asked, blinking at him blearily. Since he slept so little he often woke up disoriented.

“I know he is. He will have had a… fright. Also, it is near his time anyway,” John informed.

“That’s ridiculous, you can’t possibly…”

A text came through and Sherlock fumbled for his phone.

**Gregory called me. Come at once. Pack for several days, but do it quickly. - M**

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/56114.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 17

“My…” Gregory’s voice sounded pained, frightened, and raw.

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, still shaking from his experience, “Are you alright?”

“That’s what I was calling to find out about you. I… are you alone?”

“Yes. My father is dead. I tried to get word to you, but they told me you were in seclusion or some other such nonsense.”

“I was in meditation. My blood pressure skyrocketed last month. They thought I’d lose the babies.”

“Babies? Plural?” Mycroft asked in a choked voice.

There was a decided pause and then, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called.”

“No! Wait!”

“I’m not your burden, My. They’re not your burden.”

“Not a burden, no, but they’re still my children!”

“Are they?” Gregory asked, his voice accusing.

“Yes! Gods, yes, unless you… Gregory tell me there was no one else…” Mycroft pleaded, feeling his heart breaking anew.

“No, _Zues_ , no, there hasn’t been anyone else in ages.”

“Thank gods, I thought… Gregory, I still love you. He was threatening Sherlock. I wouldn’t have left you for anything less. He showed me a picture of his _tombstone_. I have no doubt it would have become a reality if I hadn’t obeyed him. Please. Give me another chance.”

Gregory groaned and Mycroft bit his lip, waiting hopefully and wondering what else he could say to convince him. Somehow sending him a picture of himself on his knees pleading sounded corny… especially considering the fact he was still soaked in urine that was growing cold and _very_ uncomfortable.

“Come here. To the reservation. Bring John and Sherlock.”

“You sound as if you’re… You _are_ in labor!” Mycroft stumbled towards his closet, intending on grabbing the overnight bag that always remained packed.

“Hurry.”

The call ended and Mycroft kicked off his saturated bottoms and tossed the vest on top of them. Leaving them where they landed he scrambled for the ensuite, sprayed himself down with cold water with one hand while he called Anthea to rouse her with the other. He gave himself a quick soap scrub, and then fled the bathroom to throw on the first bit of clothing he could find. He grabbed his overnight bag and bolted for the door while texting Sherlock and shouting for Anthea.

They were soon in the car driving towards Baker Street while Anthea typed away on her mobile. Soon Mycroft’s mobile buzzed and it became obvious that Anthea was sending him information which he was quickly scanning.

“Researching your impending fatherhood?” Sherlock asked.

“Mmm,” Mycroft agreed.

“You are aware we have a Satyr _in the vehicle with us,”_ Sherlock reminded.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Is there anything you would like to know, Mycroft?” John asked with an amused smirk.

“Only everything, but I doubt we have the time for a verbal dissertation.”

“It’s over an hour drive,” John replied in confusion.

“Not with the siren on,” Mycroft replied.

“Siren?” John asked.

Mycroft hit a button on his door and when the window opened a crack they could hear a siren going off. John leaned forward and peered out the window in front of them.

“We’ve got a police escort? How did we…” John cut himself off with a sigh at the looks on Mycroft and Sherlock’s face, “Never mind.”

John sat back and frowned when Anthea snickered at him.

XXXXXXXXXXX

**Warning: Description of Male Birth Below:** Skip to the next chapter if that squicks you- I can’t promise you won’t miss anything important, though.

 

Lestrade groaned miserably as his stomach clenched until it felt more like a stone than a part of his body. He watched the rippling muscles in amazement, feeling both horrified and excited by what he saw. In the last few weeks he had been feeling a growing urge to _see_ his children, desperate to hold them in his arms. He was anxious to know what they looked like, what their genders were, what they smelled like, what their voices sounded like. He wanted to take their pictures and write down their first words. The pain he felt was slowly growing, but his hope was keeping him steady.

“ **Wanting those fancy Human drugs?”** Agaat asked him teasingly.

“ **Yes, but I have little choice now,** ” Lestrade breathed, focusing on ignoring his pain… if that was possible, “ **Has my mobile rung?** ”

“ **No.”**

Lestrade groaned, wishing he’d called Mycroft sooner. Had he just swallowed his pride…

“ **He will be here in time,”** Agaat soothed, “ **You have hours till the birth happens.”**

**“But I want him _now_.”**

The rug covering the door fluttered and Mycroft pushed through, his face flushed from the hike they’d taken through the woods. He was shirtless and sweaty and had gained a fair amount of weight from the last time Lestrade had seen him. He was gorgeous.

“My.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft breathed, dropping to his knees by Lestrade’s side and taking his hand.

John and Sherlock followed him into the tent, looking equally exhausted and drenched. The scent in the room peaked to overwhelming and Lestrade turned sharply to be sick into a bowl.

“Don’t worry, Gregory, that’s normal,” Mycroft soothed.

“ **You three! Out! Bathe and come back! Stinking up my birthing room! Bah!!”** Agaat shouted, chasing them out.

Lestrade managed a weak grin as Mycroft practically backed out of the room in order to keep an eye on him until the last second. He returned fairly quickly wearing… a loincloth?

“Zeus, I hope I remember this later,” Lestrade grunted, and then had to block out everything else to focus on his breathing again.

John came in behind Mycroft and offered his services to Agaat. Apparently he had helped her with healing on occasion and knew enough to assist in a birth. He knelt between Lestrade’s legs and parted his cheeks to get a look at his saturated backside. Gregory was on a cot, but would be delivering standing as all Satyrs did.

“ **Agaat. He is very much dilated now,** ” John informed.

“ **Is he now?** ” Agaat came over and replaced John’s fingers with her own, “ **His Buck’s return has sped up his labor. His children want to meet their father.”**

“ **He should push now?”**

**“Lets have him walk until the urge hits,”** Agaat decided.

Mycroft and John dragged Lestrade to his feet as he groaned in misery, “I’m too tired to walk!”

**“You must. Your babies will be born soon. Then you can rest,”** John soothed, helping him pace the healing hut from one end to the other.

Fluids leaked down Lestrade’s legs and his stomach clenched painfully. He was just starting to wonder when he would feel this ‘urge to push’, or if he had already and had simply missed it, when he suddenly doubled over and cried out in surprise.

“Gregory?” Mycroft worried.

Lestrade pushed Mycroft slightly aside so he had room to spread his legs and squatted right where he was, bearing down hard and screaming as he did so.

“ **Do not scream,”** Agaat soothed as soon as Lestrade breathed in, “ **The pain will be less if you moan. Deep and low. Use your muscles, don’t fight them. When you are done you can have herbs to ease the pain.”**

Lestrade panted a moment and then felt his abdomen clench again. Mycroft and John were both kneeling on the ground on either side of him, grasping a hand and elbow each, supporting him as he once more pushed with all his might. His head spun a bit and Agaat scolded him about his breathing. John began to guide him and he suffered several more contractions in this way, pushing hard as he squatted on the floor. He could feel a mounting pressure at his tailbone, as though his organs were trying to escape his body en-masse.

**“I’m gonna turn inside out!”** Lestrade cried in horror.

Agaat snickered and John smiled supportively while Mycroft gave him a horrified look. Agaat knelt behind Lestrade and carefully explored his entrance.

“ **I feel the head now,”** Agaat informed him.

**“Is the Kidd okay**?” Lestrade gasped, but was wracked with another contraction before he could get an answer.

Agaat reached down and eased the baby free, carefully clearing the mouth and nose.

“ **Once more and you may rest before the next one emerges,”** Agaat soothed.

Lestrade pushed with a wail and his cry was soon joined by the indignant scream of a newborn Faun. Agaat hurriedly dipped the child in a large bowl of warmed water and then wrapped her in a blanket.

“ **A girl, Gregory,”** Agaat spoke while the man panted in agony, “ **She is healthy and beautiful. Bring forth her sibling.** ”

Mycroft pressed a kiss to his lover’s knuckles, but Lestrade couldn’t spare the energy to look up at him. He could already feel the ripple through his body as the next baby moved down and he took a few steadying breaths before clenching his legs and baring down once more. There was a horrific shooting pain then and he cried out, screaming in agony and almost standing at the pain.

“ **Hold him! HOLD HIM!”** Agaat shouted, and Lestrade found himself gently restrained by Mycroft and John, “ **Don’t push, Gregory, resist the urge.”**

**“Get it out! Oh, gods, _get it out!_** _”_

**“I see a leg. Breech.”**

John swore colorfully in English and Mycroft demanded Lestrade’s phone.

“ **He needs to be in a hospital,”** Mycroft insisted, “ **They can send a helicopter…”**

“ **The hospitals don’t treat Satyr.”**

**“They will if I ORDER them to!”** Mycroft ranted.

Agaat was down on her belly reaching into Lestrade’s body with one hand to grasp the leg that was caught. Lestrade groaned in agony, sobbing brokenly with his head bowed. He was drenched in sweat; it dripped into his eyes and tickled his nose, adding to his misery. He wanted cold water, gallons and gallons of cold water. He wanted to float in his back on the water until all the pain and hotness melted away.

“Soon, Gregory,” John soothed, “You can have water soon.”

“M’I talking out loud?”

“Yes,” John replied, “I will get you a drink when this is over. You will have a lot of cold water.”

Lestrade felt a horrific tearing sensation and sobbed harder, but then it was as though floodgates had been opened. He felt his child slide free in a gush of fluid. Agaat was silent as she examined the child and Lestrade almost forgot to breathe until he heard a second cry join his daughter’s.

“ **A boy, Gregory,”** Agaat informed, “ **As strong as his mother and twice as loud as his sister. Take a few breaths and then you must push once more to pass the afterbirth.”**

“Oh, gods, I can’t. I can’t,” Gregory replied, babbling in English.

Agaat didn’t speak a single word of English, but she had attended more births than she had seen full moons. She knew what Lestrade was saying, “ **You must and you will. Breathe and push.** ”

Lestrade braced himself and bore down once more, Mycroft pressing kisses to his hair and John grunting out encouragement as he helped take some of Lestrade’s weight.

“S-something’s not right again,” Lestrade gasped, “Something’s… that’s not afterbirth… I think…”

“ **A third,”** Agaat stated, but her voice sounded ominous.

In absolute silence Lestrade bore down as a feeling of dread rose up in him. He clenched Mycroft’s hand until he was certain he would break bones. The third child slid out of his body with abnormal ease and was quickly followed by the afterbirth… and silence.

“Oh, gods,” Lestrade sobbed, pain clenching his chest. Mycroft and John gently lowered him to all fours and John rushed to get him water, but he was crying to hard to drink it so the man patted it on his face with a flannel, “Oh, gods, I can’t look. Take it away. I don’t want to know the sex. I don’t want to see.”

John translated, his voice strained.

“Gregory…” Mycroft whispered gently.

Lestrade heard Agaat wash the third child and stand, but she did not leave the tent. Instead she laid the third child down with the others. Hope blossomed in Lestrade’s chest, but it was quickly crushed when she walked around him and knelt at his face. There were tears in her eyes.

“ **I can not promise a long life,”** Agaat explained gently, “ **Hours, perhaps. Do you still want me to remove it?”**

Deny his child its parent’s love for the short time it had?

“ **No,** ” Lestrade whispered.

“ **You have a second son,”** Agaat informed gently.

Lestrade sobbed, his feelings mixed with happiness and pain as he lay on his back on a bit of straw while Agaat palpitated his abdomen to ease out the last of the fluids. His children lay curled around him, wrapped in blankets. He had pressed the two strongest to his teats first, guiltily glancing down at the still form of his very silent third child. Mycroft had leaned forward and looked into the tiny bundle, giving Lestrade a sad smile as he watched their children instinctively feed. Satyr children would be able to walk within 24 hours of birth, so they were already eagerly squirming about. The swaddling kept them from kicking their parents or each other. When his first two fell asleep he eased them off and Mycroft helped him position their third child in the hopes they could give him some comfort.

“Gods, he’s so small,” Lestrade sobbed, “If I’d gone to a hospital instead…”

“My father would have found and killed you and all our children… and even if he hadn’t they still wouldn’t have been able to help. Sometimes in multiple births one child doesn’t get enough nutrients. If you’re lucky they terminate early but… well…”

The child wasn’t suckling, wasn’t even opening his mouth. He couldn’t way more than a few pounds.

“Perhaps if we get him there now…” Mycroft suggested softly.

Agaat leaned forward, having finished stitching Lestrade closed, removed the pillow his bottom had been propped on, and washed up. She reached a finger out and tickled the little Kidd’s cheek until he opened his mouth wide, then she pressed his face almost forcefully into Lestrade’s small breast. The baby latched on and began a weak suckle. Agaat pressed on Lestrade’s breast to express milk and ease the way and the baby guzzled greedily.

Lestrade sobbed at the feeling of milk being drawn from his body and into this small child. Part of him was guiltily thinking of pulling him off, wondering if he should conserve his milk for his other two children. Satyr males usually dried up quickly and if this one weren’t going to live then he’d be wasting resources…

_What is this? Wasting resources? This isn’t a box of staples; this is my son in my arms! If I can give him anything at all, it’s this. Milk and love. Until he has to leave us._

**“This is good,”** Agaat informed gently, “ **If he keeps drinking he increases his chances of living. Feed him hourly. If he survives the night we have hope. If he cries at some point we have more.”**

Lestrade looked up at Mycroft and saw hope and tears in his eyes as well. Gently, the aristocrat leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his smallest child’s head. The long, thin ear- almost translucent- twitched in irritation at the touch. Mycroft laughed slightly, running a finger across the peach fuzz that adorned the tiny scalp. Mycroft then set to gently winding the other two sleeping children, who couldn’t bestir themselves to notice.

Once the third baby had been gently winded and slept carefully in Lestrade’s arms, they placed him on a wooden stretcher and moved him to John’s wigwam as that was where he’d been living these last few months. Once inside they all made themselves comfortable and Mycroft set his phone to wake the smallest child in one hour to feed him again.

“The others should wake themselves,” Mycroft whispered, placing the volume on low and vibrate and putting it back in his breast pocket, “You were stunning, you know.”

“Yeah, I really know how to sweep a guy off his feet. ‘Hey handsome, wanna watch me vomit, piss myself, shit myself, and birth three Kidds? It’ll be a great time!’ Why the hell did I ask you to come?”

“You should have the father of your children by your side when giving birth, and I meant what I said. You were stunning,” Mycroft replied with heat in his voice, “You gave birth to _my_ children, not just three kids. There is nothing more beautiful than that. Have you chosen names for them?”

“I… I’m afraid to name him,” Lestrade replied, glancing down at their smallest child, “He’s so small… What if he doesn’t make it?”

“Then we’ll have a name to mourn him by,” Mycroft replied softly, “Would you prefer it if I named him?”

“I don’t know. Let me sleep on it.”

XXX

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he simply dropped to sleep. Mycroft watched him sleep for a while, turning off the alarm before it could go off and pressing the smallest child to his lover’s chest without waking him. He watched in anticipation, mimicking Agaat’s motions from earlier, and the tiny child latched on. This time, however, he had trouble getting milk out and gave up with a pitiful whimper.

_Does that count as a cry? Is there more hope now?_ Mycroft doubted it.

Instead, he stroked and massaged Gregory’s breast until milk leaked out freely, and then pressed the baby back again. It took several tries, but soon the child suckled and swallowed eagerly. Once the tiny mouth had gone slack again he gently winded him and laid him back on Gregory’s abdomen as the man had expressed a hesitance to put the child down with his larger siblings out of fear a sharp hoof would end him even sooner.

Once they were all settled again Mycroft glanced around to see that John and Sherlock had fallen asleep wrapped around each other on a spare sleeping mat in the corner. John was kicking his feet feebly in his sleep, but seemed to instinctively kick _away_ from his soft-skinned husband. Mycroft cast marveling looks at his three small children and leaned down to whisper to them, as they lay curled by Lestrade’s hips and on his lap.

“Hello, little ones. I’m your father. I suppose… I suppose I should apologize for not being around while your- mother doesn’t suit Gregory- while your _Papa_ was carrying you. I’m sure I caused him a great deal of pain. It was never my intent. I love your Papa, and I love all of you as well,” Mycroft pressed a gentle kiss to all three fluttery-eared heads, tucked their tiny hats back down on them to keep them warm, and leaned against a wall with the alarm once more set for one hour. With a feeling of dread, as though all of this would disappear if he closed his eyes, Mycroft settled back to sleep.

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/56544.html)


	18. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 18

This chapter is dedicated to AriadneVenegas (long time friend!) flubber2kool, and PresidentWeasel for picking the names of the Kidds. Thank you all for your contributions!

 

The second morning crested and saw a stretcher being hauled by John and another strong Satyr out to the edge of the reservation. Sherlock carried one curious Satyr child on his hip while Mycroft carried the other; Lestrade would not be parted from his tiny, helpless youngest Kidd. They reached the edge of the reservation and carefully helped Lestrade into Mycroft’s car. Anthea had slept in a nearby hotel and she now greeted the three children with reserved warmth, giving a pitying look to Lestrade and his smallest baby.

He hadn’t cried in the night. Not once. Agaat seemed unwilling to hope for his survival and had encouraged them when Mycroft had suggested trying a Human hospital.

**“They have methods I do not, but do not be surprised if you are unsuccessful. They disdain our kind. Do not place your hope in their miracles.”**

Mycroft held a possessive hand on Lestrade’s knee for the car ride, soothing him as he winced through every bump and jar. His other two children were being gently restrained from running amok in the car. Sherlock seemed especially overwhelmed.

“Aren’t they supposed to be soft, helpless, and _still_?!” Sherlock demanded angrily.

“ _Sherlock_!” John hissed, and nodded his head towards the bundle in Lestrade’s arms fitting that description.

Sherlock was, as usual, uncaring: “It’s not my fault. Biologically speaking that ones weakness contributed to the health of the other two. He could have ended up with _three_ unhealthy children had the other two not parasitically survived off the nutrients meant for the third.”

“This is the part where you _stop talking_ ,” John snapped irritably, “You haven’t a right to hurt people’s feelings just because you know more than they do, Sherlock.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock sulked, and then grunted when a sharp hoof from the little girl in his lap nailed his shin, “Maybe they should be made to run along side.”

“Fuck’s sake, Sherlock! Shut the hell up!” John shouted.

“Language, please,” Mycroft frowned, “And do shut up, Sherlock, you’re being abysmal, even for you.”

“Sorry,” John muttered, blushing.

“Hmph,” Sherlock grunted, looking out the window in annoyance.

Gregory smiled softly at their antics and tried to get the littlest one to nurse. When they reached the hospital he was bundled into a wheelchair and Mycroft himself pushed his lover through the doors into the A&E. The doctors swarmed them and their child was quickly taken to the pediatric wing.

“Honestly,” A nurse whispered as they were led through a corridor to a room for Lestrade since the staff insisted he be examined as well, “I don’t know why these _Animals_ don’t just give birth in hospitals like everyone else. That poor thing could have died and…”

“You’ve just answered your own question,” Mycroft cut in with a glare, “Gregory and my children are not _Animals_. They are _Satyr_ , and until hospitals begin to treat them as such I find it unlikely that they will enjoy your services.”

The nurse had the grace to blush, but only tightened his lips in reply as though biting back a nasty answer. They wheeled into the room and Mycroft frowned at the carpeting that had been thrown down hastily. None of it matched and he was painfully aware that this hospital was unused to treating Satyr.

“We should have gone to London and St. Barts,” Sherlock whispered to Mycroft out of Gregory’s hearing, “They’re equipped to treat Satyr.”

“This was closest. We’d already delayed enough. If they prove incompetant we’ll check out and drive the youngest there,” Mycroft replied, giving Gregory a worried look.

An OBGYN came in to examine Gregory and his stitches.

“Would you like something for the pain?” The doctor asked kindly.

“No thanks. I chewed some herbs this morning, I’ve no idea how they’ll interact with the modern meds,” Gregory replied, “Besides, if I could birth them drug-free I’m sure I can manage the exam.”

“Very well,” The doctor frowned, clearly disgusted by the use of _herbs_ as a solution for pain or medicine.

He put on gloves, lubricated his hands to the point of rediculousness, and then examined Gregory carefully.

“There seems to be a lump in here…”

“That would be my cervix,” Gregory deadpanned, “You _are_ an OBGYN, aren’t you?”

“Yes, so it would seem. There’s a very thick film over it.”

“That’s to keep it clean seeing as it’s located _in my arse_. It’s a mucus plug. No, I don’t need to drain more: Satyrs expel all fluids with the afterbirth. ”

“Ah, yes, I understand you have a second set of sphincter muscles that we don’t have?”

“If you can reach _those_ with your fingers I’ll dump _him_ and marry _you_ ,” Gregory replied with a nod in Mycroft’s direction. Mycroft snorted in amusement.

“Those muscles are to keep feces from becoming involved in the mating process,” Mycroft explained, “They’re rather far up the colonic passage. You’d need a scope to examine them.”

“Fascinating,” The doctor replied, stepping back and removing his gloves, “The stitches are very well placed, though I don’t recognize the material used. I’m a bit leery about leaving them in because I’m not certain they’ll dissolve-“

“We’ve been assured they will,” Mycroft stated.

“Then I’ll have to trust you on that. If we remove them and re-stitch him we could do more harm than good. I’m going to prescribe you a round of anti-biotics and some painkillers- obviously the painkillers are optional. I’m also going to have to insist that your children be vaccinated. If you refuse we’ll have to ask you to leave the hospital.”

“Why would we refuse vaccinations?” Mycroft asked, glancing askance at Gregory and John, “Is this something Satyr often refuse?”

“Typically, yes, they go in for holistic healing and-“ The doctor started, but Gregory cut him off with a snap.

“We’d get vaccinated more if it were available,” Gregory snapped irritably, “I’ve been and my Kidds will be, too. Get your heads out of your arses and send doctors into the reservations and there wouldn’t be a problem. Satyrs have no issue with preventive medicine, just arsehole doctors who can’t tell the difference between an Animal and an animal.”

“Very well, I’ll order the first rounds for you. Is anyone else in need of treatment?”

“I’d like to know how my son is doing,” Gregory replied coldly, “Especially since I’m not the least bit confident in your ability to treat him based on _your_ knowledge so far.”

“I assure you the differences between Satyr and Human biology are very small in the pediatric field,” The doctor stated coldly, “They’ll be looking more at his lungs, heart, and brain. Not his rectum.”

The doctor pivoted on a heel and quickly left the room while John glared after him angrily and Gregory worried the edges of his blanket.

“Adrastos,” Gregory stated suddenly.

“For which?” Mycroft asked, looking up in surprise.

“The youngest. Adrastos. Undaunted. He’s going to make it. He has to,” Gregory stated, his eyes avoiding everyone in the room.

“Gregory…” Mycroft started, his voice pained, but John cut him off with an angry glare.

“Of course he will with such strong parents,” John stated firmly.

“Yeah. Course,” Gregory muttered.

“What about the other two?” Sherlock asked curiously.

“I can’t think of a girl name,” Gregory shrugged, “Women never interested me.”

“Ariadne,” Mycroft suggested softly, “Our princess: and to symbolize the maze of pathways our lives took to lead us here.”

“Yeah. Ariadne. For the eldest boy I like Barloc. It means ‘strong warrior filled with love and hope’. I know hope fits the youngest better, but I keep hearing that word around him and-“

“It’s fine, Gregory, you don’t have to explain,” Mycroft soothed, walking across the room and stroking his hand gently.

John shifted Ariadne on his hip and Mycroft smiled at his daughter’s big, brown eyes. She was covered from head to toe in tiny, widely spread freckles. The hair on her head and legs was a very light reddish-brown. She looked a great deal like Mycroft. Barloc, sucking his thumb on Mycroft’s hip, was grey like his Sire but had Sherlock’s alabaster skin. Like Gregory, he had no markings on his skin besides the hair on his legs to distinguish him as a Satyr though he did have hooves.

“So curious that all three have hooves when you have not,” Mycroft muttered.

“Me being born without was a birth defect,” Gregory explained, “My parents were horrified. They were afraid I’d be treated as a freak my whole life, though it honestly hasn’t bothered me. The Satyrs don’t care- though other Kidds did tease me- and Humans generally don’t notice what isn’t being dangled in front of their noses.”

Sherlock snorted an agreement to that sentiment.

“Sherlock, John, would you leave us in private for a moment?” Mycroft requested.

The two men agreed and Mycroft passed his son off to a sour faced Sherlock on the way out the door.

“You really don’t like Kidds, do you?” John chuckled as the door was shutting behind them.

“Well not _other_ peop…” Sherlock’s reply was cut off.

“I know why you did it,” Gregory said softly, “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then what do you have to say? Is it about Adrastos?”

“No, though I share your concern for him. I hope you realize that I want things to go back to the way they were, but I realize the likelihood of that is fairly slim.”

“You being my sweet little housedoe while I work to bring home the bacon and bugger you senseless every night? Yeah, not likely,” Gregory snorted.

“My home is open to you, Gregory. I’d like to raise our children together. Perhaps in time you will forgive me and we will have a relationship once again.”

Gregory sighed, “I’m not sure what we had _was_ a relationship, My. It was me squirreling you away in a proverbial tower like Rapunzel. You enjoyed it for a bit, but you would have smothered eventually, and there was no way we could have raised three Kidds in an a tiny apartment with a shut-in for a spouse and me a cop keeping odd hours.”

“You will accept my proposal, then?”

“You’re proposing?” Gregory teased with that glint in his eyes that Mycroft had fallen in love with.

“Yes,” Mycroft blurted without thinking.

Gregory blinked. Mycroft blushed, then dropped to one knee and took Gregory’s hand tightly in his.

“Will you marry me, Gregory?”

“I… fuck… I’m not the girl in this, you know?” Gregory tugged his hand free, looking embarrassed.

“You’re not in any condition to go down on one knee, and I’m fully aware of my effeminate status as the regular bottom in our bed,” Mycroft smiled teasingly.

“Nothing effeminate or degrading about bottoming,” Gregory scolded lightly, though his dancing eyes showed he recognized the jest for what it was, “I’m just not sure I like the idea of you down on one knee.”

“Yes, you prefer me on both with your cock in my mouth,” Mycroft teased back, but he knew there was some seriousness behind Gregory’s second sentence.

“Not yet, My. It’s too soon,” Gregory sighed, proving Mycroft’s concerns to be correct, “I mean about the marriage thing. My cock and your mouth… well, once I’m feeling _up_ to it you can bet your sweet, tight arse it’s happening.”

“I understand,” Mycroft replied, standing and offering his hand to be held once more.

Gregory took it and squeezed it firmly, “I’ll come live with you. _We’ll_ come live with you. I want to go back to work, though. I’m no housedoe.”

“Understandable. I will work as well. We’ll get a nanny- I mean a _governess_ \- for the children,” Mycroft stated, blushing at his accidental use of a derogatory term.

Gregory snickered, “I know what you meant, My. A nanny will be fine.”

There was a sharp rap on the door and a doctor stepped in with a grave expression.

“Mr. Lestrade?”

“Yes,” Gregory replied, looking tense.

“I’d like to discuss your youngest son’s condition… what was his name? We are prepared to make out the birth certificate.”

“Adrastos. Adrastos Gregory Holmes. The elder son is Barloc Mycroft Holmes. The girl is Ariadne Sheryl Holmes.”

Mycroft snickered, “That’s going to _infuriate_ Sherlock.”

“Why do you think I picked it?”

The doctor cleared his throat and the serious look on his face broke through to Mycroft and Gregory.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Gregory asked softly.

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/56612.html)


	19. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 19

“Could we speak in private, Mr. Lestrade? Or is this the… ahhh… _other_ father?”

“I’m Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft stated calmly, “and yes, I’m Adrastos’ Sire.”

“Very well, ahhh, before I continue, do you prefer the term ‘mother’ or ‘father’ when referring to yourself?” The pediatrician asked. He looked highly embarrassed as he glanced nervously at Lestrade.

“Father,” Lestrade replied after a moment.

“Thank you. I apologize; it’s just not every day I deal with male pregnancies, especially from my end as the pediatrician. All right, we’ve taken a good look at Adrastos and he seems to be in fairly good health despite a very low birth weight. We’ve placed him in a bun warmer to help his development and he’s been given a very small amount of oxygen because his lungs are a little underdeveloped. We don’t want to give him too much, however, because that could have adverse side effects. Instead we’re going to monitor him very closely on that front. He’ll have to stay here until he gains some weight and we can make certain all his organs are functioning properly. Has he passed his first bowel movement?”

“No, but the other two have,” Mycroft supplied.

“Good, it was black?”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded, aware of the importance. If they hadn’t passed black stool it might have meant they’d passed their first bowel movement- the meconium- in the womb and ran the risk of inhaling their own feces.

“We’re going to keep an eye on that as well, then. There is one concern, and I’m going to ask you two to brace yourselves for this. I understand you had no medical evaluations during your pregnancy?”

“None,” Lestrade replied, feeling a pang of guilt, “I was on a Satyr reservation the entire time. The healer cared for me there. Did I do something to hurt him?”

“No, not at all, I was just trying to determine if you’d had any testing done. There’s no easy way to break this news, I’m afraid: Adrastos has Down’s syndrome.”

There was a pause and Mycroft and Lestrade looked at each other for a moment.

“That’s it?” Lestrade asked.

“Well… yes,” The doctor replied, blinking in surprise, “Are you aware of what Down’s syndrome is?”

“Yeah, but not the specifics,” Lestrade shrugged, “It’s not fatal, though, right?”

“Not so much, no, but there can be medical complications that go along with it: heart problems, low muscle tone, and a likelihood of cognitive delays. With proper care he can live an average of 60 years. He’ll need to be checked regularly at first to make sure he’s not developing issues with his heart, but it looks healthy at this point. We’ve got a monitor on him- several different monitors actually.”

“Just Down’s syndrome? Nothing worse?” Mycroft asked to clarify.

“Nothing. My goodness, you two sure are taking this well! Most parents are devastated.”

“We’ve two healthy children and one we thought wouldn’t survive the night with a diagnoses of mild to potentially severe retardation-“

“Don’t use that word,” Lestrade cut in.

“Apologies, dear. My point is- it’s the best news we’ve had since our second child was born healthy. The other two _are_ healthy, are they not?”

“I haven’t had a chance to look at them, but judging by the way they were terrorizing everyone in the hallway, I’d say they are,” The doctor smiled warmly, “I’ll take a look at them sometime this afternoon and get them their first round of vaccinations if you don’t object?”

“Please, and I’d like Adrastos to be in my room,” Lestrade nodded.

The doctor agreed and headed back out of the room with a polite nod.

“We’ll need a very _competent_ nanny,” Mycroft stated, “but I see no difficulties. We are blessed with wealth and three beautiful children… who I should probably stop from terrorizing the hallways.”

“That sounds good,” Lestrade grinned.

XXX

Mycroft headed into the hallway to find Sherlock sulking on a couch in a waiting area with his arms folded and his back to the room. John was chasing his children about and someone had given them toys to play with which he was happily making noises for. It was adorable to watch the normally stoic Buck make airplane noises and quack like a duck. The Kidds clearly loved it and were hanging off of him as though he were a jungle gym.

“Come along children,” Mycroft called, “Your father wants to see you.”

They didn’t respond. John gave Mycroft a guilty, worried look and grunted something to them in Satyrese. The children’s heads swiveled towards Mycroft and they charged him, shrieking happily until he scooped them up in his arms. Sharp hooves battered his thighs and hip and he made a mental note to have Anthea pick up some male protective gear for him at as soon as possible.

“Why do they not listen to me?” Mycroft asked in concern, “It was my understanding Satyr children were born with verbal skills.”

“Only in Satyrese,” John explained in embarrassment, “They instinctively know that, but you have to teach them Greek and any other language they’ll need to know.”

“So I won’t be able to communicate with them?” Mycroft asked in alarm as his daughter nuzzled his cheek and his son slapped at him playfully.

“Not verbally, no, but I read that most Human babies learn sign language faster than verbal language, that should follow with Satyr. Greg should have no trouble speaking Satyrese to them.”

Mycroft nodded his understanding and thanked John for his help before heading into the hospital room again. He nodded motioned for John and Sherlock to join them once he’d gotten the Kidds situated on the bed with Gregory. The greedy Kidds were tugging down his hospital gown to get to his chest and gulp milk down.

John and Sherlock walked in with worried looks (Mycroft knew Sherlock well enough to read his past the blank exterior) and Mycroft gave them the news. John took it poorly, and was nearly frantic once the condition had been explained to him.

“He won’t be able to hunt? To tell the difference between edible and poisonous plants?” John worried.

“He might,” Gregory replied, “We don’t know yet how delayed he’ll be. He might have only a few small difficulties, or he might require constant care. We’ll find out as he grows. Either way, we’re in a good position to care for him, right My?”

“Correct,” Mycroft nodded.

“He’ll have a relatively normal life, assuming he’s not too delayed,” Gregory comforted John, “He’ll be able to hold a job and date and everything, he’ll just do things at a different pace than his siblings.”

A knock at the door heralded the return of Adrastos in a wheeled bun warmer. The device was plugged in at the location the 2nd hospital bed would usually go and various other tubes were hooked up to their tiny child. He lay in the warmer in nothing but a diaper with his softly furred legs splayed in restful slumber. Mycroft walked over to get a better look at his still son and admired the coloring on his legs.

“He’s got chestnut brown hair on his legs. That’s what will grow on his head, correct?”

“Most likely,” John nodded when Gregory proved too busy to answer.

“He has patches of color on his skin,” Mycroft noted, “Is that normal? Will it fade or stay?”

John wandered over and gave him a look.

“Solid colored Satyr like Greg and I are rare,” John explained, “He looks very normal. The patches will likely stay. They are like birthmarks. Some Humans say those of us with those marks look like cows, but I’ve seen cows and I disagree.”

“Hmm, I don’t much care for the comparison myself. It’s a pity we can’t hold him.”

“You’ll have years to,” John replied supportively.

XXX

Lestrade watched as John showed Mycroft how to swaddle their sleepy children so they didn’t kick their father while they slept. Once the tiny Kidds were bundled up, they were pressed against either of Lestrade’s sides and the bed rails raised. Barloc squirmed a hand free and stuck his thumb in his mouth while worrying one long pale ear between his fingers. Lestrade gave the satiny ear a stroke and the boy shivered and then dropped into a deeper sleep with a contented sigh. Ariadne was snoring softly, snuffling her nose and rubbing it occasionally against Lestrade’s thigh.

_She must still have a bit of mucus in her nose. Poor dear. It’s hard to believe they were born just last night. Especially after having spent most of my life around Human babies with how helpless they are._

“Ady, Loc, and Ari,” Lestrade stated proudly, pointing to each child in turn.

“You are _not_ calling them pointless nicknames,” Mycroft sniffed imperiously, “Their names are Adrastos, Ariadne, and Barloc; if you don’t want to say a mouthful change them before they return with the birth certificates.”

“Ady, Loc, and Ari,” Lestrade replied, narrowing his eyes, “And you can P-I-S-S-O-F-F if you don’t like it. My Kidds. My nicknames.”

Mycroft flinched and Lestrade sighed, “I didn’t mean it like that. They’re yours too, obviously, but I’ll call them nicknames if I want. Feel free to spit out all those syllables all day for all I care.

Mycroft nodded quietly, stroking Ariadne’s soft hair, “They’re beautiful, Gregory.”

“They are, aren’t they?” Lestrade grinned, “Can that cart reach over here? I want to be able to keep my eye on Ady.”

Mycroft grimaced at the nickname, but motioned for John to take a look at the cart nonetheless. Once had determined it could be moved closer he wheeled it as far as it could go and then did the same for Lestrade’s bed. Sherlock watched his husband bending and flexing as he shifted about with obvious interest. When John returned to his side Lestrade saw the wanna-be-detective give his bottom a pinch. John’s ears flickered and he blushed and smiled shyly.

“You two are so effin cute,” Lestrade grinned at them.

Sherlock looked insulted, but John slipped his arm around the Man’s waist and bussed his cheek. Sherlock blushed as well and wrapped an arm around John’s shoulders with a proud lift to his chin.

“We do make a handsome couple, don’t we?” Sherlock smirked, “As do you two, though you rather make ‘stately Englishmen’ fit a bit better than ‘handsome’.”

John nodded, “You both look handsome and stately.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Thanks,” Lestrade grinned, then yawned, “But I’m kicking you all out so I can sleep while the Kidds do.”

“We’ll check into a hotel,” Sherlock stated, and then held his hand out to Mycroft expectantly. Mycroft rolled his eyes but pulled out several notes for his sibling, “Thank you, brother. Come along, John. I want to see if we can’t manage what Lestrade here already has.”

“What? Pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to have sex!” John crowed cheerfully.

“Observant as always, my love,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother and Lestrade and led his husband from the room.

“I’d like to stay,” Mycroft requested softly, “If you don’t mind? I’ll be quiet while you sleep. I’m rather tired myself.”

“I’d like that, thanks. That chair, over there, folds into a bed for fathers that stay in maternity,” Lestrade advised.

Mycroft figured it out in short order, grabbed linens and a pillow, and was soon snoring away on the (uncomfortable looking) roll away. Lestrade settled down into the bed with an arm around each Kidd and a last glance at his third before drifting off to the land of Nodd.

[CHAPTER TWENTY](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/56947.html)

 


	20. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 20

John loved the rain. He loved the feel of it in his skin, the way it beaded on and eventually pressed down on his fur, the drip from the fringe of his hair down onto his nose, the shiver as it slid down between his shoulder blades. He stood on the pavement before 221 Baker Street in nothing but a loincloth letting the rain wash his sadness away while Sherlock played melancholy notes on his violin upstairs. John could hear the music wafting down to him. It was like his own personal concert with the skies weeping for him; the tears that he was too much of a ‘tough guy’ to shed for himself.

Several Satyrs were out as well, but most didn’t enjoy the rain as he did and were wearing plastic pants and ponchos to keep the wet out of their fur. They greeted John with a polite nod, a word in their own language, or perhaps a passing touch. It was comfort to have his own kind nearby despite the lack of trees and animals that he preferred to commune with. He missed the reservation already, but his beloved was uneasy there and Sherlock’s happiness was far more important than a bit of woods.

Sherlock didn’t know and John hadn’t told him. He didn’t have the words to express his misery at finding his mother had passed while he’d been away. She had been so important to him, they had been so close, but in the end he had sent her only a handful of letters in the time he’d been gone. He felt supremely guilty because of that, and his only excuse was the excitement of his spouse and their new marriage. He’d been busy, yes, but not too busy to write to her more often! Now it was too late. There were no important words left unspoken between them, but there were so many _un_ important things he wanted to _tell_ her. Like how Sherlock would now only drink tea if John made it. Or how his heart had ached when he’d held Lestrade’s little children in his arms. Or how much he missed her baked apples. They were things a Buck could only share with his mother, and now she was unreachable to him forever.

Eventually John grew chilled enough to forsake the streets and head inside. He toweled off in the entryway as best he cold and went upstairs. He put an extra two towels down on his chair and flopped into it, drawing a blanket around his shivering form.

“Do you feel better?” Sherlock asked.

“A bit.”

“Do you want to talk about her?”

John smiled. Of course Sherlock knew without him saying. John had tried to keep his loss to himself because he didn’t want to intrude on all that was going on with Lestrade and Mycroft, but Sherlock had simply known in that way he knew most things.

“Yes. I think I do.”

“I’ll listen, but don’t expect me to understand. My own mother is obnoxious.”

John talked for over an hour while Sherlock sat in his chair and lazily plucked the strings of his violin. John wasn’t sure his lover was even listening, but when he paused he’d make an encouraging sound so John went on talking. Eventually he got up and made them both tea and tried to force a sandwich on Sherlock, but the rest of their day remained as lazy as the dripping weather until a knock sounded on their door.

Sherlock waved John away when he rose to answer it, which was unusual for him. Then he stepped out into the hall with the caller and shut the door behind him. John’s curiosity was peaked, so he stood and opened the door.

“-I see you here again I’ll-” Sherlock was hissing at the person, but when John opened the door he whirled around and shoved him back through it, slamming it in his face.

“Sherlock?” John called in alarm, opening the door again to find Sherlock dragging the person down the stairs.

The ‘person’ was a Satyr female with mottled brown skin and long dirty-blonde hair on her head. She was dressed like a Human and had _shaved_ her legs! It took John a moment to recognize her, but when he did he couldn’t contain the horrified cry of her name: “Harry?!”

Harry looked up at John with a furious look on her face and jerked her arm out of Sherlock’s grasp. John watched with growing misery as Harry staggered up the steps, her footing unstable for reasons _other_ than her cloven feet.

“ **Djawn, tell this asshole I’m your sister** ,” Harry growled at him.

“ **You’re not my sister! Get the hell out of here!”**

**“Mom’s dead.”**

**“I know that, what I don’t know is why _you’re_ here. This is my home. Who even told you where to find me?”**

**“I saw you and your boyfriend in the paper.”**

**“He’s my _husband_ and you’re trespassing. ** Piss off.”

“Oh, you speak English now, do you? Pretty boy,” Harry had stomped up the stairs and she shoved at him aggressively, but John didn’t rise to the bait.

“Take your hands off my husband, you lush!” Sherlock snarled, grasping Harry by the arm and dragging her back, “Leave or I’ll throw you out!”

“You get your hands off me, Monkey!” Harry shouted, shoving at Sherlock as well.

Sherlock was right by the stairs and nearly lost his footing on the wet floor. John’s heart clenched in fear and he snatched Sherlock away from the edge before forcibly dragging Harry down the stairs and chucking her out the door.

“And stay out!” John shouted, flinching when he realized he was quoting movies again. Then he slammed the door in her face.

When John reached the top of the stairs Sherlock whirled on him in a temper, “Any other siblings I need to worry about showing up drunk on our doorstep?”

“No. None of my brothers drink that I know of, but I suppose they might show up.”

“You have _brothers_? Plural? How many?” Sherlock asked, but he’d gone from angry to curious having just realized there were things he didn’t know about John.

“Most Satyrs do, Sherlock, we’re breeding machines. You saw how many Greg spat out in one go. I have four brothers, but they’re all significantly older than I am. Harry is my twin sister.”

“You… she’s… I…”

“Information overload?” John snickered.

“How did I not know about this? You’ve never spoken of them, own nothing that shows you have siblings, don’t write to them…”

“We’re not close,” John shrugged, “I know that’s unusual for my kind, but the age of my youngest older brother is 13 years difference and we’re only half siblings. Harry and I don’t get on, obviously, because of her drinking. She ran away from the reservation at fourteen with a Satyr who had been visiting but lived with Humans. She came back a few years ago with a serious drinking problem and hit our mother. We haven’t spoken since. Mother had two husbands; her first died six years before I was born. My eldest two brothers are twins and the youngest two were single births; they’re all a year apart each other than the twins. To my knowledge my brother’s are all happily married and making Kidds of their own. They live on the other side of the reservation.”

Sherlock gaped at John, “How did I _miss_ this?!”

“It’s practically a secret, Sherlock, though not one I actively keep,” John smiled, “You can’t be expected to know something I don’t even _think_ about.”

“You have nieces and nephews you don’t know,” Sherlock noted in surprise.

John winced, “Yes, that part bothers me a bit. I’ve meant to go visit for years, but it just never happens. Maybe it’s time.”

“Hmmm, maybe,” Sherlock intoned, looking away. His interest was done in the matter and he walked away to find something else to do.

“She had shown up before?” John asked suspiciously.

“Yes, yesterday she showed up while you were out shopping. I turned her out on her ear once I realized whom she was and how inebriated she was. I deduced you two were estranged and that you wouldn’t want to see her.”

“You deduced correctly, as usual.”

“But I missed _four other siblings_ ,” Sherlock growled in frustration.

John smiled and kissed his husbands head, “I’ll put dinner on.”

The next day found them at a crime scene, Lestrade walking them towards it with aslight limp still showing. It had only been three weeks since he’d given birth, but the stubborn man had missed his job too much to stay away. Sally had been promoted since and was now his sergeant.

“Satyr female, throat slit with a gang symbol painted above her corpse in blood. It’s not a pretty sight. She was raped, beaten, and strangled before all this happened, but it was the cutting that did her in. We need confirmation that this is or isn’t a hate crime,” Lestrade informed calmly as they entered the werehouse.

A few seconds later John was bolting back out to be spectacularly sick on the ground outside. Sherlock followed after, his eyes wide in alarm.

“John?” He called while tugging his shaking husband into his arms, “John, it’s not your fault.”

“She was coming to us for _help_! Zeus, Sherlock I threw her out!”

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/57211.html)


	21. vincentmeoblinn | Faun Watson and the Reluctant Detective Ch 21

Sherlock went back in to investigate at John’s insistence while Lestrade sat on a bench and held him tightly in his harms. He petted the miserable Buck’s head while he fought down tears, giving his horns and silky ears the occasional stroke as well. John settled against him and calmed eventually, but Lestrade was no fool- he knew it was a thinking calm rather than an actual one.

“Do you think we might have stopped it?”

“I’ve no idea,” Lestrade sighed, “It depends what she got herself into. You need to remember she was an adult, John. She did get _herself_ into it, whatever it was. She was causing trouble long before this.”

“I know. I just… I know.”

“Can I ask you a few things about her?”

“Yes, but I don’t know much. We were out of touch for a while.”

“Do you know if she was doing drugs?”

“I thought she might have been, but when she came to see us last I hadn’t had any contact with the Human world. I knew very little about its dangers. She seemed to be more than intoxicated, but perhaps that was her damaged mind? I don’t know.”

“What about who she was with. Still the Satyr she ran off with?”

“A Doe by the name of Clara. I don’t think so. Clara was nice, a sweet girl, but she had a lot of goals that Harry didn’t understand. She wanted to be a lawyer. I’ve no idea what became of her or their relationship. Harry was still with her when she dropped in on my mother and I, but I got the impression their relationship was falling apart.”

“Sherlock mentioned she hit your mum?”

“Yes. She wanted mother to give her some valuable stones she had. They’d been gifts from our father. Mother refused because she knew Harry wouldn’t keep them to pass onto her Kidds or mine, she’d just use them to get more alcohol. Harry punched her hard enough to break her nose.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I th-threw her out,” John choked a moment, took a deep breath, and continued, “I threw her out of the hut and some of the warriors led her off the reservation. She was warned not to return. A few days later my mother left to look for her, but when she came back a few weeks later she said she hadn’t been able to find Harry.”

“And when she came to see you yesterday?”

“There wasn’t much said. She was definitely drunk, but I don’t think she had anything else in her. She shoved me, shoved Sherlock; I dragged her down the stairs and chucked her out the door. She fell on the pavement, but was getting back up by the time I shut the door so she wasn’t hurt that I know of.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Lestrade comforted, rubbing their cheeks together in a Satyr kiss. John leaned into it eagerly, turning his head to bring their lips together in a chaste need for comfort. They stilled a moment, lips pressed together, and then pressed their foreheads together instead.

“Sherlock will figure this out,” John told Lestrade firmly, as though he were the one needing comfort, “He’ll get her killers.”

“Yeah. Yeah he will,” Lestrade replied, kissing John’s trembling lips again.

Sherlock came out of the warehouse and glanced between them and gave their intimate embrace a worried look, “Is this one of those Satyr things?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade chuckled, “We’re an affectionate lot. You want a cuddle, too?”

Sherlock snorted, “Hardly.”

To John’s amusement Sherlock stepped forward and grasped each of their wrists to take their pulses, and narrowed his eyes as he stared at them.

“Neither of us are aroused, Sherlock,” John snickered, “It wasn’t that kind of kiss.”

“I’m very possessive,” Sherlock informed John.

“I know, I like you that way. I’m possessive, too,” Then John leaned away from Lestrade and pulled Sherlock into his lap, “I like that your body is mine only.”

“Your _lips_ are mine only, too,” Sherlock scolded.

“I won’t kiss him again if you don’t want me to,” John chuckled, “but, yes, my lips are yours only.”

“What other intimate customs do you lot have?” Sherlock asked in annoyance.

“Unmarried Satyr typically spend their heats together in big filthy orgies,” John growled into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock snorted, “They do not.”

“No, not really,” John laughed, “But we do pair off or sometimes get into small groups. Polygamy isn’t uncommon, not all our marriages are between only two people.”

“You are _not_ marrying anyone else!” Sherlock snapped.

“Don’t want anyone else,” John replied, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“Same here,” Lestrade smiled, “I can’t imagine anyone touching me besides Mycroft; or him being touched by anyone else.”

“Beyond kisses,” Sherlock pouted.

“Beyond those,” Lestrade chuckled, “They’re no different than hugs, Sherlock. John needed comfort and you are a cold fish.”

“I’m a perfectly _warm_ fish when we’re in private,” Sherlock sulked, folding his arms indignantly.

“Lets get to private then,” John decided, “I need more than a snuggle from a friend. I need my husband.”

“Very well,” Sherlock nodded, “Lestrade I’ll text you my report.”

Lestrade didn’t miss the significant look on Sherlock’s face; he didn’t want to say what he’d found in front of John. John wasn’t unaware of the situation, either. He gave Lestrade’s hand a squeeze and then hurried away with his arm tightly wrapped around his husband’s waist. Sherlock was typing away on his mobile already and Lestrade lifted the phone to wait for the message to come through.

**Not a hate crime. This was gang related, but the symbol painted by her body was not the one that Anderson idiot thought. The details were different; that eye symbol is unknown to me. I believe it was a message stating that someone is watching her/us/you. Something about this is unsettling. I need to do more research. There should have been more clues at the scene and there were remarkably little. I would be shocked if any DNA were found on her despite the apparent rape and battery. This was staged for shock value.**

XXXXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft bounced his daughter on his knee while his son toddled around the nursery. The finest of furnishings had been bought and the entire house baby proofed. On Lestrade’s insistence, they had an entirely Satyr staff including the governess Wilha. The older, chubby, matronly Doe was good with the children and had told Mycroft that she could have them speaking English and Greek by six to nine months old. Mycroft was relieved to hear that as he watched in complete isolation as his children communicated easily with their nanny and the rest of the staff.

The staff called Mycroft the ‘blessed one’ behind his back. Apparently it had to do with him surviving a trial by Nemesis, their goddess of karma- or whatever they called her. They were not terrified by his home, nor did they treat him as anything but another Satyr. It was surprising to him to feel them touch him out of the blue when Humans tended to avoid such casual contact. At first he had pulled away from them and given them disgusted looks, but their hurt and confused looks won him over and soon he was touching them as easily as they did him.

At the moment, the governess was tucked against Mycroft’s side, her hand wrapped in his while she watched the children play. It was such an unusual thing to hold someone’s hand, but Mycroft was quickly falling in love with the Satyr culture. All of the staff lived in their home, most of them paired off or in small, mated groups. Their children worked as well, but Mycroft did not pay them and calmly informed the parents regularly that the children were not _required_ to work. They would go back to school soon anyway and Mycroft would breathe a bit easier, but in the mean time they were amusing his own Kidds.

Adrastos was still very small and slept most of the time, but he had stood for a few minutes the day before to his father and sire’s absolute joy. Barloc and Ariadne were wild children, but they were also very small at only twenty and twenty-one inches tall respectively. The other children towered over their newborn counterparts and the governess was constantly stopping them from trampling them. Her sharply bleated words were obeyed instantly as Satyr children were raised with a firm and disciplined hand; one must be strict with children that could walk a day after being born!

The chime sounded that let Mycroft know that the door downstairs had been opened and he excused himself to greet the father of his children at the door.

“You’re home very late,” Mycroft admonished as he pressed a kiss to his cheek, “You could have called.”

Gregory tugged Mycroft into a tight hug and held him there for several minutes.

“What has happened?”

“John’s sister was murdered today. He’s a wreck. Sherlock thinks she might have been targeted because she was related to them.”

“Are our children in danger?” Mycroft asked in alarm.

“I don’t know. I’ll tell the staff to keep strangers out and be vigilant around the Kidds.”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m not fantastic,” Gregory stepped back and gave Mycroft a warm smile, “But I’m not in tears, either. Hormones are still a bit off.”

They walked hand in hand to the nursery where their children greeted their father with happy bleats and grunts. Mycroft was still getting used to the strangely animalistic tones of the Satyr language, but was assured that it was as complex as any language and not demeaning at all.

“They tell me you read them books in English and Greek today,” Gregory noted.

“They said all that?” Mycroft asked in surprise.

“They sort of did. They don’t understand written word yet, so they just told me what the books were about a bit. They didn’t fully understand the stories, either, but I took it from what they did that one was English and the other Greek.”

“I read them _Pinocchio_ and _The Minotaur_.”

“Ah, good stories,” Gregory smiled, then shooed them off to walk up to the bassinet that held Adrastos, “Hey Addy, are you going to wake up for your daddy?”

Gregory lifted Adrastos onto his shoulder and the little boy groggily looked about himself and then whimpered for food. Mycroft was learning his sounds faster than the other two children and went to fetch the nearby bottle that had been made in preparation for his feeding. Gregory’s milk was already drying up so the children were also getting formula.

“I’ll nurse him first,” Gregory said, waving off the bottle, “Let him get his fill. He needs the natural stuff more than the other two do.”

Gregory sat Adrastos on his knee the way he would the other two and leaned him face-first against his bared chest. The small one suckled weakly for a moment and then picked up the pace and guzzled happily. Gregory popped him off and switched sides after a few minutes before passing him to Mycroft and calling the other two over. Ariadne and Barloc had a little tussle at Gregory’s feet, but he scooped them up and offered them each a teat and they latched on happily. Mycroft watched them feed, their little tails flickering happily, and slipped closer to Gregory to wrap his arm around him.

They had been taking things slowly since returning from the Reservation. Gregory was still healing from giving birth and was tired most of the time. Mycroft was feeling clingy and needy, but was reluctant to show those feelings lest he be rejected. Gregory wanted to take things slowly and ease them back into a physical relationship. Otherwise, they shared a bed and Mycroft had never been so grateful for something so easily taken for granted. The scent of Gregory’s body near his was such a comfort that Mycroft found himself yearning for their bedtime… despite the regular wake-ups for infant feeding.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock frowned at his phone. The picture of the symbol felt familiar somehow. He stood up and glanced out his window, nodding to himself. He’d seen it painted elsewhere around the city and there was one across their flat. It had since been painted over with other forms of graffiti, but you could still see it if you were looking closely enough. To his annoyance, he couldn’t recall when it had first appeared.

_So, we are being watched as well. Interesting._


End file.
